𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The house was too quiet when you stirred awake, the sheets cool beside you. You blinked at the clock on the nightstand, its red numbers glaring back: 2:17 a.m. He still wasn’t home.

You sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, listening for the familiar creak of the dock or the rattle of his keys. Nothing. Just the night air pushing through the cracked window and the faint hum of cicadas in the dark.

You sighed, pulled on one of his old tshirts, and padded barefoot across the deck. The garage wasn’t far—just a short walk up from the houseboat—but in the stillness of the night, it felt like a mile.

The big overhead doors were down, but a strip of bright light framing the closed door of the side entrance. You pushed it open gently, and the familiar smell of oil, gasoline, and old rubber washed over you. The shining white lights made your eyes squint. It took a few moments to be able to open them again.

And there he was.

Brian sat hunched on a rolling stool, shoulders rounded, hair sticking up in messy tufts like he’d been dragging his hands through it for hours. Grease smeared along his jawline where he must’ve wiped sweat away without thinking. His hands were buried under the hood of a beat-up Supra, every movement precise, methodical—like he couldn’t stop until it was perfect.

For a second, you just stood there, watching him. There was something about him like this—lost in the work, steady in a way he never seemed to be outside the garage—that pulled at you.

“Hey,” you said softly, voice carrying over the silent garage.

Brian’s head jerked up just enough to meet your eyes. His mouth tugged into that quick half-smile, the one he didn’t even seem to notice he did. “Hey, baby,” he murmured, then his gaze dropped right back to the engine, hands moving again, quick and sure.