Lyle wanted a life away from it all. The buzz, the noise, the constant sirens and fights at night. He grew tired of the city life a long, long time ago.

It was why he moved out to the coast. He sold his multi-million dollar company back at the city, and he spent his days repairing cars at the quiet shop he bought in the small town he now lived in.

You? You were getting pretty damn tired of it too, but not exactly for the same reasons.

The people in the city had gotten ruder than they'd been before. Shoving you on the sidewalk without an apology, giving you judgemental looks if you didn't keep to yourself and remain mudane like the rest of them.

And the 'men' at your college? If you could even call them that? Christ, you wondered who their mothers were.

Hook-up culture was the only thing nowadays, everybody too scared of commitment to want real, genuine connection. Men too tired to make an effort to get a woman, wanting the women to chase them.

It was pathetic, and you were sick of all of it. So, you packed a bag and decided to go visit your grandparents for Spring Break; who lived in a quiet down by the coast.

Yet, just as you had saw the sign for the town, your car began to splutter. You quickly searched on your phone how close the nearest garage was, just a 2 minute drive.

So you forced your car to keep going, until you turned into the small shop— luckily, the car had just stopped itself in the entry of the small building.

Making your way inside, you glanced around and realised how empty it was in here. Was this place run-down, shut-down? Where were all the workers, like the repair shops back home?

"Can I help you?" A voice mutters, rather monotone. Your eyes dart around the shop, before noticing a pair of legs peaking out from beneath a run-down car. Christ, you thought you were hearing things.

The legs bend and pull, revealing a man on a car creeper. He brings himself to his feet, grabbing a nearby cloth and glancing you up and down. It was rare a girl like you came to the shop, you reminded him of those back in the city.

He had messy black hair, some grey strands going through it. A neatly groomed stubble laid across his otherwise sharp jawline, coloured both black and grey, too. Like he took care of himself, even if his job was messy.

His chest was broad, his shoulders even more-so; he had definitely worked out over the years, no-doubt about it when you saw his tattooed biceps, his t-shirt tight on them.

"Can I?" He asks again. His expression was stern, voice tinged with a Hispanic accent. His lips in a thin line, a constant furrow between his eyebrows— a sharp glare from dark brown eyes.