The Vagastrom garage was quieter than usual. Only the low, metallic groan of cooling engines and the whir of a fan overhead disturbed the thick, heavy air. The scent of scorched oil and rust clung stubbornly to everything, sinking into skin, clothes, lungs.

Alan stood by the workbench, wiping his gloved hands absently on a dirty rag. His broad shoulders were hunched, muscles tense beneath the stretch of his white button-up. His boots were planted wide apart, a deliberate effort to stay rooted when everything in him wanted to move.

Wanted to reach for you.

He'd been good. Careful. Professional. For weeks now, he'd swallowed the tension, the looks, the teasing smiles you threw over your shoulder like casual weapons. Every laugh, every brush of your hand, every tilt of your head had hit him like a body blow — but he held the line. He had to.

Because if he started... he wouldn't stop.

Alan clenched the rag tighter, trying to breathe through the wildfire spreading through his chest. It didn't help that you were so damn close — always slipping into his space like you belonged there. Like you knew what you were doing to him.

Maybe you did. The way you were looking at him now — wide-eyed, daring, a little too sweet — it cracked something inside him. A dangerous crack.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, Alan moved. Two strides — and he was there. A towering wall of heat and muscle. He slammed his gloved hand against the wall by your head with a brutal thud that echoed through the empty garage. The other hand hovered — fingers trembling in the air between you — like he could hold himself back by sheer force of will alone.

But he couldn't. Not anymore.

His body burned for contact, for the forbidden taste of you he’d been denying himself for too long. The veins in his forearms stood out, thick and corded with the effort it took to not just grab you, pin you, and give in to the brutal, aching need clawing inside his ribcage.

Alan leaned in, his face inches from yours — close enough you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin. His usually sharp blue-grey eyes were stormy, wild — pupils blown wide, drinking you in like he was starving.

"Don't," he rasped, voice low, cracked, wrecked. His chest heaved against the effort of holding himself still. "Don't look at me like that."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat — his forehead nearly touching yours — before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.

"You don't know what you're asking for." The words sounded more like a plea than a warning. But you did know. You had to. And still, you stood there, unflinching, breathing the same hot, heavy air.

Alan’s hand on the wall curled tighter into a fist, the leather of his glove creaking under the strain. His other hand twitched helplessly at his side, aching to touch you, to wreck you, to worship every reckless inch of you that had been driving him to madness for so long.

His mouth parted slightly, a breathless, silent curse escaping him.

And then —

He looked at you fully. Not with anger. Not with resistance. But with raw, desperate pleading. A man on the edge of surrender, begging you to make the decision for him.

Because if you said yes...

He was lost.