You don’t move toward the waiting area. Instead, you shift to lean against the fender of your car, arms crossed, watching Aaron work. The air between you is thick with the scent of grease and something sharper, his sweat, the metallic tang of his skin. He doesn’t look up, but his shoulders tense, just slightly, like he can feel your eyes on him.
“So,” you say, “how long’s this gonna take?”
Aaron doesn’t answer. He just wrenches something loose, the muscles in his arms flexing. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, disappearing into his beard. The radio hums between you, some old blues track that feels too slow for the energy crackling in the air.
You step to his side, close enough to see the way his muscle tee clings to his back, damp with sweat. Close enough to catch the scent of him, smoke, motor oil, and something darker, muskier. The fabric stretches thin across his shoulders, the hem riding up just enough to show the dark line of hair trailing down his spine.
“You said diagnostics take time,” you press. “How much time?”
He exhales through his nose, a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so irritated. “Longer if you don’t shut up.”
“You always this chatty when others are working?” he mutters, not turning around.
“Only when I’m paying for it.”
Aaron finally straightens, wiping his hands on a rag. His movements are deliberate and slow, like he’s giving you time to back off. You don’t. He turns toward you, his body angling just enough to crowd your space.
“You want it fixed or not?”
“I want to know what’s wrong with it.”
He doesn’t answer. He just bends over the engine again, his broad back to you. The radio fades into static, the silence between you heavier now.
Then he shifts and pulls his muscle tee over his head. The movement is deliberate, almost theatrical. He tucks the shirt into the back pocket of his jeans, the denim sagging lower without the fabric to hold it up. The waistband of his jock rides up, the elastic digging into the swell of his ass, the cleft of his cheeks shadowed and damp with sweat. You can see the dark hair curling at the small of his back, the way his skin glistens in the dim light.
Your body reacts before you can stop it, heat pooling low in your gut.
Aaron steps forward, his chest nearly brushing yours. “You done?”
You don’t back down. “Not even close.”
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, like he can sense the way your body’s reacting to him. His voice is rough, a growl. “Then be a good little boy and go sit the fuck down if you want to know what’s wrong with your vehicle.”
The words hit like a slap. You glare at him, your pulse thudding in your throat. But you don’t argue. Not this time.
The waiting area is exactly what you expected, a cracked plastic chair, a stack of yellowed magazines, and a coffee maker that looks like it’s breeding something. You drop into the chair, your body still humming with the proximity of him. The garage feels smaller now, the air heavier. You pull out your phone, but you’re not reading. You’re listening, to the scrape of metal, the thud of his boots, the way his breath catches when he puts his weight into something.
Your mind keeps drifting back to the way his jeans sagged when he bent over. The way his skin looked, damp and flushed. The way his ass filled out the denim.
You shift in the chair, trying to ease the pressure in your jeans. It doesn’t help.
The garage grows dimmer as the sun sinks lower, the light turning amber, then orange. You tell yourself you won’t fall asleep. You won’t give him the satisfaction.
But the rhythmic sounds of the garage, the tink of metal, the scrape of his boots, lull you under. The last thing you see before your eyelids grow heavy is Aaron, his shoulders to you, his jeans riding low, the shadowed cleft of his ass peeking above the waistband of his jock.
You wake with a start, your neck stiff, your phone slipped from your fingers and onto the floor. The garage is darker now, the only light coming from the single bulb over the workbench and the sickly glow of the emergency exit sign. The clock on the wall reads 7:03 PM.
Fuck.
You rub your eyes, blinking against the gritty heaviness of sleep. The chair dug a groove into your side, and your mouth tastes like cotton. The garage is quieter now, the air cooler. Aaron is at the counter, his shoulders to you as he wipes his hands on a rag. His shirt is still tucked into his pocket, his skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat in the dim light.
You stand, your body slow to wake. The concrete is cold under your shoes as you walk toward the counter.
Aaron doesn’t turn. But he knows you’re there. You can tell by the way his shoulders tense, just slightly, before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his shirt. He wipes his hands on it, slow and deliberate, then tosses it onto the counter without bothering to put it back on.
“Took longer than I thought,” he says, his voice rough. “Sensor was loose. Alternator’s shot. Fixed it for now, but you’ll need a new one.”
He finally turns and looks at you directly. His eyes are dark in the low light, his beard shadowed. The silver at his throat catches the light as he swallows.
“You good to drive?”
“So,” you say, “how long’s this gonna take?”
Aaron doesn’t answer. He just wrenches something loose, the muscles in his arms flexing. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, disappearing into his beard. The radio hums between you, some old blues track that feels too slow for the energy crackling in the air.
You step to his side, close enough to see the way his muscle tee clings to his back, damp with sweat. Close enough to catch the scent of him, smoke, motor oil, and something darker, muskier. The fabric stretches thin across his shoulders, the hem riding up just enough to show the dark line of hair trailing down his spine.
“You said diagnostics take time,” you press. “How much time?”
He exhales through his nose, a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so irritated. “Longer if you don’t shut up.”
“You always this chatty when others are working?” he mutters, not turning around.
“Only when I’m paying for it.”
Aaron finally straightens, wiping his hands on a rag. His movements are deliberate and slow, like he’s giving you time to back off. You don’t. He turns toward you, his body angling just enough to crowd your space.
“You want it fixed or not?”
“I want to know what’s wrong with it.”
He doesn’t answer. He just bends over the engine again, his broad back to you. The radio fades into static, the silence between you heavier now.
Then he shifts and pulls his muscle tee over his head. The movement is deliberate, almost theatrical. He tucks the shirt into the back pocket of his jeans, the denim sagging lower without the fabric to hold it up. The waistband of his jock rides up, the elastic digging into the swell of his ass, the cleft of his cheeks shadowed and damp with sweat. You can see the dark hair curling at the small of his back, the way his skin glistens in the dim light.
Your body reacts before you can stop it, heat pooling low in your gut.
Aaron steps forward, his chest nearly brushing yours. “You done?”
You don’t back down. “Not even close.”
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, like he can sense the way your body’s reacting to him. His voice is rough, a growl. “Then be a good little boy and go sit the fuck down if you want to know what’s wrong with your vehicle.”
The words hit like a slap. You glare at him, your pulse thudding in your throat. But you don’t argue. Not this time.
The waiting area is exactly what you expected, a cracked plastic chair, a stack of yellowed magazines, and a coffee maker that looks like it’s breeding something. You drop into the chair, your body still humming with the proximity of him. The garage feels smaller now, the air heavier. You pull out your phone, but you’re not reading. You’re listening, to the scrape of metal, the thud of his boots, the way his breath catches when he puts his weight into something.
Your mind keeps drifting back to the way his jeans sagged when he bent over. The way his skin looked, damp and flushed. The way his ass filled out the denim.
You shift in the chair, trying to ease the pressure in your jeans. It doesn’t help.
The garage grows dimmer as the sun sinks lower, the light turning amber, then orange. You tell yourself you won’t fall asleep. You won’t give him the satisfaction.
But the rhythmic sounds of the garage, the tink of metal, the scrape of his boots, lull you under. The last thing you see before your eyelids grow heavy is Aaron, his shoulders to you, his jeans riding low, the shadowed cleft of his ass peeking above the waistband of his jock.
You wake with a start, your neck stiff, your phone slipped from your fingers and onto the floor. The garage is darker now, the only light coming from the single bulb over the workbench and the sickly glow of the emergency exit sign. The clock on the wall reads 7:03 PM.
Fuck.
You rub your eyes, blinking against the gritty heaviness of sleep. The chair dug a groove into your side, and your mouth tastes like cotton. The garage is quieter now, the air cooler. Aaron is at the counter, his shoulders to you as he wipes his hands on a rag. His shirt is still tucked into his pocket, his skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat in the dim light.
You stand, your body slow to wake. The concrete is cold under your shoes as you walk toward the counter.
Aaron doesn’t turn. But he knows you’re there. You can tell by the way his shoulders tense, just slightly, before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his shirt. He wipes his hands on it, slow and deliberate, then tosses it onto the counter without bothering to put it back on.
“Took longer than I thought,” he says, his voice rough. “Sensor was loose. Alternator’s shot. Fixed it for now, but you’ll need a new one.”
He finally turns and looks at you directly. His eyes are dark in the low light, his beard shadowed. The silver at his throat catches the light as he swallows.
“You good to drive?”