You clear your throat. “Check engine light keeps coming on. Happened once before, mechanic said it was just a loose sensor. Tightened it, and I was on my way.”
Aaron grunts, low and skeptical. “Sure that’s all it was.” He jerks his chin toward the far corner of the garage, where a cracked plastic chair and a stack of ancient magazines sit beneath a flickering fluorescent light. “Waiting area’s over there. Help yourself.”
The “waiting area” is little more than an afterthought, a single chair with a cracked seat and a coffee maker that looks like a biohazard. You don’t touch it.
You take a seat, pulling out your phone. Might as well read. The chair creaks under your weight, the plastic groaning like it’s one wrong move away from collapsing. You unlock your screen, but your attention keeps flickering back to Aaron.
He’s already bent over the engine again, his broad back to you. The garage is quiet except for the clink of tools, the occasional curse under his breath, and the low murmur of the radio, the same blues station from before, now playing something slow and smoky. You try to focus on the words in front of you, but your eyes keep drifting up.
Aaron works with the methodical rhythm of a man who’s done this a thousand times before. His muscles shift beneath his skin, the tattoo on his ribs flexing with every reach, every twist. The air is thick with the scent of grease and sweat, the heat of the day lingering even as the sunlight slanting through the windows begins to soften, turning golden.
Then he pulls his muscle tee over his head.
You don’t mean to look. But you do.
He tucks the shirt into the back pocket of his jeans, the movement casual, like he’s not even thinking about it. The denim sags lower without the fabric to hold it up, the waistband of his jock now fully exposed, the elastic digging into the swell of his ass. The cleft of his cheeks is deeper now, shadowed and impossible to ignore. His back is a landscape of scars and ink, the snake tattoo coiled around his shoulder, the thorns on his ribs shifting as he breathes. The silver ring in the hollow of his throat glints when he turns his head just slightly, catching the light.
You force your eyes back to your phone. You last maybe thirty seconds. Your thumb hovers over the screen, the words blurring together. The radio fades into static, then silence. Aaron doesn’t bother to change it. The only sounds are the scrape of metal, the thud of his boots on the concrete, the way his breath hitches when he leans into the engine.
Then he glances back.
Your head snaps down so fast your neck cracks. You stare at the screen, fingers tight around the phone, like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pulse thuds in your throat.
Aaron doesn’t say anything. Just smirks, just a little, just enough to let you know he knows, before turning back to your vehicle.
Time stretches. The garage grows dimmer as the sun sinks lower, the light turning amber, then orange, then fading into the blue gray of dusk. The only sounds are the clink of tools, the occasional groan of metal, the way his shoulders tense when he puts his weight into something.
You tell yourself you won’t look again.
He’s crouched now, his thighs spread wide, the denim stretched so tight over his muscles it looks like it might split. The jock strap rides up just a little higher, the elastic cutting across the top of his ass. You can see the way his shoulders bunch as he works, the dark hair at the nape of his neck damp with sweat. Your mouth feels dry, your throat tight.
You shift in the chair. The plastic creaks.
Aaron doesn’t turn around. But his back tenses, just for a second, like he can feel your eyes on him. Like he likes it.
You try to focus on your phone, but the words swim in front of you, meaningless. Your eyelids grow heavy, the rhythmic sounds of the garage lulling you, the tink of metal, the scrape of his boots, the way his breath evens out when he’s concentrating.
At some point, you doze off.
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. The muscles in his back shift as he moves, the tattoo on his ribs stretching with every breath.
You stand, your legs stiff, 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.
The fabric lands with a damp thud beside a clipboard, the paper rustling as he flips it open.
“Took longer than I thought,” he says, his voice rough. “Sensor was loose, alright. But your alternator’s on its last legs. Fixed it for now, but you’ll need a new one soon.”
He finally turns, his gaze cutting to you. 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?”
Aaron grunts, low and skeptical. “Sure that’s all it was.” He jerks his chin toward the far corner of the garage, where a cracked plastic chair and a stack of ancient magazines sit beneath a flickering fluorescent light. “Waiting area’s over there. Help yourself.”
The “waiting area” is little more than an afterthought, a single chair with a cracked seat and a coffee maker that looks like a biohazard. You don’t touch it.
You take a seat, pulling out your phone. Might as well read. The chair creaks under your weight, the plastic groaning like it’s one wrong move away from collapsing. You unlock your screen, but your attention keeps flickering back to Aaron.
He’s already bent over the engine again, his broad back to you. The garage is quiet except for the clink of tools, the occasional curse under his breath, and the low murmur of the radio, the same blues station from before, now playing something slow and smoky. You try to focus on the words in front of you, but your eyes keep drifting up.
Aaron works with the methodical rhythm of a man who’s done this a thousand times before. His muscles shift beneath his skin, the tattoo on his ribs flexing with every reach, every twist. The air is thick with the scent of grease and sweat, the heat of the day lingering even as the sunlight slanting through the windows begins to soften, turning golden.
Then he pulls his muscle tee over his head.
You don’t mean to look. But you do.
He tucks the shirt into the back pocket of his jeans, the movement casual, like he’s not even thinking about it. The denim sags lower without the fabric to hold it up, the waistband of his jock now fully exposed, the elastic digging into the swell of his ass. The cleft of his cheeks is deeper now, shadowed and impossible to ignore. His back is a landscape of scars and ink, the snake tattoo coiled around his shoulder, the thorns on his ribs shifting as he breathes. The silver ring in the hollow of his throat glints when he turns his head just slightly, catching the light.
You force your eyes back to your phone. You last maybe thirty seconds. Your thumb hovers over the screen, the words blurring together. The radio fades into static, then silence. Aaron doesn’t bother to change it. The only sounds are the scrape of metal, the thud of his boots on the concrete, the way his breath hitches when he leans into the engine.
Then he glances back.
Your head snaps down so fast your neck cracks. You stare at the screen, fingers tight around the phone, like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pulse thuds in your throat.
Aaron doesn’t say anything. Just smirks, just a little, just enough to let you know he knows, before turning back to your vehicle.
Time stretches. The garage grows dimmer as the sun sinks lower, the light turning amber, then orange, then fading into the blue gray of dusk. The only sounds are the clink of tools, the occasional groan of metal, the way his shoulders tense when he puts his weight into something.
You tell yourself you won’t look again.
He’s crouched now, his thighs spread wide, the denim stretched so tight over his muscles it looks like it might split. The jock strap rides up just a little higher, the elastic cutting across the top of his ass. You can see the way his shoulders bunch as he works, the dark hair at the nape of his neck damp with sweat. Your mouth feels dry, your throat tight.
You shift in the chair. The plastic creaks.
Aaron doesn’t turn around. But his back tenses, just for a second, like he can feel your eyes on him. Like he likes it.
You try to focus on your phone, but the words swim in front of you, meaningless. Your eyelids grow heavy, the rhythmic sounds of the garage lulling you, the tink of metal, the scrape of his boots, the way his breath evens out when he’s concentrating.
At some point, you doze off.
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. The muscles in his back shift as he moves, the tattoo on his ribs stretching with every breath.
You stand, your legs stiff, 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.
The fabric lands with a damp thud beside a clipboard, the paper rustling as he flips it open.
“Took longer than I thought,” he says, his voice rough. “Sensor was loose, alright. But your alternator’s on its last legs. Fixed it for now, but you’ll need a new one soon.”
He finally turns, his gaze cutting to you. 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?”