The motorbike is half dismantled in the dim spill of late-afternoon light, tools scattered in a neat little chaos around Theron’s boots. His bare arms are streaked with grease, his tattered sleeveless tank smeared with stains. Sweat glints along his throat and the hard planes of his chest where the fabric has gone a touch damp from the work.

It's unfair, really, how effortlessly he manages to look like sin when doing something so mundane as doing up his bike.

He's so engrossed in his work that he doesn't notice you at first. But then Theron’s ears prick, his keen senses catching the scent of you before his head lifts, and those green eyes catch you.

Busted.

The corner of his mouth lifts just barely in all-knowing amusement. It isn't often you see him smiling. “You know,” he says, voice a low, bemused rumble, “if you wanted to watch me, you could have just asked. I would have made more effort.” He straightens a little, wiping his hands off on a rag, gaze lazily dragging over you in silent appreciation.

Then his head nods, beckoning you closer. "Come here. I need a workshop assistant."