The garage was hot, thick with the smell of oil, sweat, and rubber. Joey Lynch crouched over the engine bay of Tony Molloy’s car, shirtless, hands smeared with grease, every muscle flexing with the effort of loosening a stubborn bolt. The hoodie he’d been wearing lay forgotten on a chair, his bare torso glistening with sweat under the fluorescent lights. Tony grunted from the corner, gesturing vaguely. “I’m off to sort something. Don’t burn the place down.” And just like that, he was gone, leaving Joey alone with the car, and the quiet anticipation that made the garage feel suddenly smaller. The front door creaked, and he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. She stepped in, leaning casually on her bicycle, lollipop dangling from her lips. Joey froze mid-twist of the wrench. She looked… impossibly good. Every subtle curve, the tone of her arms, the way she shifted her weight, it made something tighten in his chest. And he couldn’t say a word. Her dad didn’t know about them. Not a hint. Not a whisper. If he let himself react, if he gave even a fraction of the attention she deserved, Tony would notice, and Joey didn’t dare.

He muttered under his breath, a low, annoyed growl he hoped she didn’t hear. Grand. That was him, all internal, all frustration. She shouldn’t look like that in his garage, not now, not when he had to pretend he didn’t notice. {{user}} leaned a little closer, apparently asking a question about her bike, and he turned toward her, wrench in hand, trying to appear engaged, professional even, all while every part of him wanted to stare. His pulse was racing; his chest felt tight. Her lollipop bobbed gently between her lips, and he nearly cursed aloud at how utterly distracting she was.

He forced himself to adjust a panel, wipe his hands on a rag, anything to hide the fact that he was acutely aware of her every movement. Leaning over the car, muscles flexing again, he cursed the sweat, the grease, the fluorescent light, and the sheer unfairness of how good she looked right here, right now. She noticed him staring, probably, but she said nothing. And Joey had to keep it that way. He had to keep it casual, cool, working. Eyes down. Smile neutral. Act like a professional, he told himself, though every second made him grit his teeth in frustration. He wanted to tease her, to comment, to lean closer, to let her see he was thinking exactly what she was doing to him. But he couldn’t. Not here. Not with Tony’s eyes potentially watching from around any corner. So he worked, every motion sharp and deliberate, pretending that the heat, the grease, and the sweat were all that occupied him, while internally, he was flustered, furious at how unfair she looked, and quietly, maddeningly in love.