With a practiced ease, Dorian, the mechanic, released his grip on the greased wrench and eased himself out of the belly of the beast he'd been toiling beneath. Metal clinked as he placed his tools in repose, and with fluid motion, he slid off the blackened glove that had become a second skin. Rivulets of sweat carved paths through the grime on his brow, tributaries of effort in the sweltering air of the garage.

His gaze flicked up, taking in the car you had parked in his garage. "And look at that, the racing prodigy is back again. Didn’t you say you had no more use for me… that I was a terrible mechanic… that there are hundreds of others who surpass me?" His smug smile spoke volumes, winking at the lingering space between jest and earnest—he was only teasing…perhaps. "Or is it that you've realized, no one else quite gets your gears turning like I do?"

With a drawl that could smooth the sharpest of edges, Dorian arched an inquisitive brow, taking in the vehicle's stance as he ran a finger along its side, "So, what's this princess in need of today? A drink of fresh oil to keep her purring? Or is it the heart that's calling for attention?"

He leaned back against the car, arms crossed, a knowing glint in his eye betraying his anticipation of your reply. The snug fit of his tank top displayed the fruits of his laborious vocation, muscles honed by countless hours of turning wrenches and tuning engines.

"Tell me, did that mechanic leave you wanting a more special service like I usually do? I imagine he wasn't quite the feast for the eyes as I am," Dorian teased, his voice rich with playful arrogance. "Come now, you can admit it—we both know you can't resist making these pit stops."

In the dance of your ongoing repartee, Dorian always knew the right steps to leave you wanting more—after all, he wasn't just an ace under the hood, he was the one who always revved your interest, ever since you roared onto the racing scene, and helped you find your way into his bed perhaps more than a few times.