You leaned against the cool concrete wall of the garage, arms crossed loosely as you watched him bent over the open hood of your car. The scent of motor oil lingered in the air, mixing with the faint trace of his cologne—something woodsy and sharp that always clung to his shirts no matter how many hours he’d spent working.

Your check engine light had been on for weeks now—maybe longer—but it had taken a lull in your schedule and a not-so-subtle nudge from him to finally bring it in. He didn’t seem annoyed, though. Just focused. You watched the muscles in his forearms shift as he adjusted something deep in the engine, sleeves of his dark shirt pushed halfway up and streaked with grease.

A moment later, he straightened with a low exhale, one hand planted on his hip while the other wiped a smudge from his jaw. He glanced over at you, half a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Loose gas cap,” he said, voice casual. “I’ll have it fixed in no time. You can hang out here if you want.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the back of the shop, the sound of his boots echoing softly on the concrete floor. You let your gaze drift over the organized chaos of his workspace—tools lined up with military precision, half-taken-apart engine blocks, and a radio playing something low and bluesy from the corner.

When he came back, he didn’t say anything at first. Just approached quietly, a wrench in one hand and a crooked smirk on his face. He moved like he was still in rhythm with the music, easy and unhurried. And then, before you could say anything, he leaned in—closer than necessary, closer than professional—and his breath brushed warm against the shell of your ear.

“As for the price…” he murmured, low and rough, “we can talk about that later. At my place.”

He pulled back without waiting for your reaction, turning toward the car like he hadn’t just sent a shiver down your spine.