The garage simmered in the late afternoon heat, the air thick with the perfume of fuel and steel. Music rattled low from a battered radio, half-drowned by the whirr of fans and the occasional clang of tools. Brian leaned over his Skyline with the ease of someone who belonged there, sleeves rolled, forearms traced with streaks of grease that only made him look sharper, more alive.

You drifted to his side, tilting your head at the open hood like it was some complicated puzzle. In truth, you knew every inch of what you were looking at, but you wore your feigned confusion like a carefully chosen accessory. It gave him reason to glance up, to smile that lopsided, golden smile, and straighten just enough to invite you closer.

“This here,” Brian said, brushing his hand along the manifold, “is where the car breathes. Air goes in, power comes out. Like lungs—only faster.”

His voice was easy, patient, the kind that carried its own rhythm, like he was telling you a story instead of walking you through mechanics. You leaned in, close enough to feel the heat rising off him, the scent of motor oil clinging to his shirt. Every word he spoke you already knew, but you let the sound of it thread through you, let the moment stretch like the hum of an engine waiting at the line.

Brian pointed lower, tracing the spark plugs with his fingertips. “These guys? They’re the heartbeat. If they’re off, car won’t even think about moving.”

He glanced up then, catching you watching his hands instead of the engine. The corner of his mouth tugged, almost boyish. “Am I going too fast for you?”

You shook your head, the faintest smile on your lips, knowing full well you could finish his sentence for him. But you stayed quiet, let him keep going, let him think he was building you a map of this metal labyrinth.

From across the garage, Dom’s voice carried, dry with amusement, though he didn’t look up from his own work. “She’s playin’ you, brother.”

Brian laughed under his breath, eyes never leaving yours. “Yeah? Maybe I don’t mind.”