The gravel crunches under your tires as you pull into the bay. You sit for a moment, engine idling, watching the man under the hood of the pickup. The garage yawns open, a cavern of grease and shadow, the air thick with the scent of motor oil, old cigarettes, and something muskier underneath, sweat maybe, or the ghost of last night’s whiskey. Sunlight slants through the grimy windows, cutting sharp lines across the concrete floor. The radio hums low in the corner, some old blues station no one’s bothered to change. The kind of music that says what it means without words.
Your car is the only one here.
From the driver’s seat, you can see the way his jeans ride low, slung so loose they’ve slid down just enough to expose the waistband of his jock, and the shadowed cleft of his ass peeking below it. The dark elastic frames the top of his cheeks, the fabric stretched tight over hairy, rounded globes. His muscle tee is pulled thin across his shoulders, damp with sweat, the hem riding up to show the dark trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t rush. Just keeps working, his shoulders rolling as he wrenches something loose, the muscles in his arms flexing with every movement. The tattoo on his ribs, a twist of thorns and bone, shifts with each breath, the ink blurred where the skin stretches over muscle.
You kill the engine. The silence that follows is heavier than it should be.
The garage’s big windows face the street. A few locals drift past outside, a guy in a stained tank top, a woman pushing a stroller, but no one looks in. The man under the hood seems like he wouldn’t care if they did.
You step out of the car. The heat hits you immediately, dry and heavy, the kind of air that clings to your skin like a second layer. The door groans shut behind you, the sound too loud in the quiet. He still doesn’t turn. You can hear the scrape of metal on metal, the quiet curse he mutters under his breath when something doesn’t give. His hands are big and calloused, the knuckles scarred from years of work. The rag he uses to wipe them is already black with grease, the fabric frayed at the edges.
You clear your throat.
He finally straightens, slow, like he’s been expecting you. He wipes his hands on the rag, his movements deliberate, his eyes cutting to you before you’ve even finished stepping forward. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t need to. His gaze rakes over you, not sizing you up, just placing you. The weight of it settles somewhere between your shoulder blades, hot and heavy, like a hand you can’t shake off.
His voice is rough, like gravel under boots.
“What’s the problem?”
He steps back from the truck, turning just enough to face you. His stomach isn’t flat. It’s ridged, the kind of muscle that comes from hauling and lifting, softened just slightly by age and too many beers. The muscle tee clings to him, the fabric thin enough to show the dark shadow of his nipples, the thick gauge ring centered in the hollow of his throat catching the light as he swallows. The tattoo on his collarbone, a rune, old and half forgotten, peeks out from under the stretched neck of his shirt.
You open your mouth, but the words don’t come right away. His presence does that. Makes you second guess the easy answers.
“First time here.”
Not a question. He already knows. His eyes flick to your car, then back to you. The way he looks at you isn’t curious. It’s assessing. The kind of look that says he’s already decided how this goes.
He leans against the hood, arms crossed. The position pulls the tee tight across his chest, revealing a hoop in his left nipple. His beard is thick and dark, threaded with silver at the temples, and his lips are slightly parted, like he’s about to say something else, something just for you.
“Diagnostics take time.” His gaze flicks to the clock on the wall, then back to you. “You got time?”
A challenge. His voice is rough, but there’s something underneath it, amusement maybe, or the kind of dark humor that says he already knows the answer.
You glance at the clock. It’s just after noon.
His eyes follow yours. His lips quirk, just slightly.
“Or you in a hurry?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just pushes off the hood, the movement easy and predatory. He’s bigger than you thought. Broad shoulders, thick thighs, the kind of body built for work, not for show. The kind of body that makes you wonder what it would feel like to be pinned beneath all that weight.
He steps closer. Not into your space, but close enough that you can smell him. Smoke, sweat, the sharp tang of leather and old oil. His throat ring glints as he tilts his head, studying you. His fingers tap against his thigh, once, twice. A nervous tell, or a test.
The radio switches to a country song. He doesn’t change it.
You swallow. Your mouth is dry.
His gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes darken, just slightly. Like he’s already decided how this ends.
He wipes his hand on the rag again, then extends it toward you. The knuckles are scarred, the fingers calloused.
“Name’s Aaron.”
You take his hand. His grip is rough, his palm hot and slightly damp. The heat of him radiates outward, seeping into your skin, and your cock shifts in your jeans, just enough to remind you it’s there. You force out your name, your voice steadier than you feel.
Aaron’s grip lingers just a second too long. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a fleeting touch that sends a jolt up your arm.
“I can take a look at it today,” he says, his voice low. “Might even fix it, if it doesn’t need parts.”
He steps back, his eyes raking over you again, slower this time. Like he’s memorizing the way your shirt clings to your chest, the way your jeans ride low on your hips.
“Up to you,” he says. “You can wait. Or come back before close.”
Your car is the only one here.
From the driver’s seat, you can see the way his jeans ride low, slung so loose they’ve slid down just enough to expose the waistband of his jock, and the shadowed cleft of his ass peeking below it. The dark elastic frames the top of his cheeks, the fabric stretched tight over hairy, rounded globes. His muscle tee is pulled thin across his shoulders, damp with sweat, the hem riding up to show the dark trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t rush. Just keeps working, his shoulders rolling as he wrenches something loose, the muscles in his arms flexing with every movement. The tattoo on his ribs, a twist of thorns and bone, shifts with each breath, the ink blurred where the skin stretches over muscle.
You kill the engine. The silence that follows is heavier than it should be.
The garage’s big windows face the street. A few locals drift past outside, a guy in a stained tank top, a woman pushing a stroller, but no one looks in. The man under the hood seems like he wouldn’t care if they did.
You step out of the car. The heat hits you immediately, dry and heavy, the kind of air that clings to your skin like a second layer. The door groans shut behind you, the sound too loud in the quiet. He still doesn’t turn. You can hear the scrape of metal on metal, the quiet curse he mutters under his breath when something doesn’t give. His hands are big and calloused, the knuckles scarred from years of work. The rag he uses to wipe them is already black with grease, the fabric frayed at the edges.
You clear your throat.
He finally straightens, slow, like he’s been expecting you. He wipes his hands on the rag, his movements deliberate, his eyes cutting to you before you’ve even finished stepping forward. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t need to. His gaze rakes over you, not sizing you up, just placing you. The weight of it settles somewhere between your shoulder blades, hot and heavy, like a hand you can’t shake off.
His voice is rough, like gravel under boots.
“What’s the problem?”
He steps back from the truck, turning just enough to face you. His stomach isn’t flat. It’s ridged, the kind of muscle that comes from hauling and lifting, softened just slightly by age and too many beers. The muscle tee clings to him, the fabric thin enough to show the dark shadow of his nipples, the thick gauge ring centered in the hollow of his throat catching the light as he swallows. The tattoo on his collarbone, a rune, old and half forgotten, peeks out from under the stretched neck of his shirt.
You open your mouth, but the words don’t come right away. His presence does that. Makes you second guess the easy answers.
“First time here.”
Not a question. He already knows. His eyes flick to your car, then back to you. The way he looks at you isn’t curious. It’s assessing. The kind of look that says he’s already decided how this goes.
He leans against the hood, arms crossed. The position pulls the tee tight across his chest, revealing a hoop in his left nipple. His beard is thick and dark, threaded with silver at the temples, and his lips are slightly parted, like he’s about to say something else, something just for you.
“Diagnostics take time.” His gaze flicks to the clock on the wall, then back to you. “You got time?”
A challenge. His voice is rough, but there’s something underneath it, amusement maybe, or the kind of dark humor that says he already knows the answer.
You glance at the clock. It’s just after noon.
His eyes follow yours. His lips quirk, just slightly.
“Or you in a hurry?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just pushes off the hood, the movement easy and predatory. He’s bigger than you thought. Broad shoulders, thick thighs, the kind of body built for work, not for show. The kind of body that makes you wonder what it would feel like to be pinned beneath all that weight.
He steps closer. Not into your space, but close enough that you can smell him. Smoke, sweat, the sharp tang of leather and old oil. His throat ring glints as he tilts his head, studying you. His fingers tap against his thigh, once, twice. A nervous tell, or a test.
The radio switches to a country song. He doesn’t change it.
You swallow. Your mouth is dry.
His gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes darken, just slightly. Like he’s already decided how this ends.
He wipes his hand on the rag again, then extends it toward you. The knuckles are scarred, the fingers calloused.
“Name’s Aaron.”
You take his hand. His grip is rough, his palm hot and slightly damp. The heat of him radiates outward, seeping into your skin, and your cock shifts in your jeans, just enough to remind you it’s there. You force out your name, your voice steadier than you feel.
Aaron’s grip lingers just a second too long. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a fleeting touch that sends a jolt up your arm.
“I can take a look at it today,” he says, his voice low. “Might even fix it, if it doesn’t need parts.”
He steps back, his eyes raking over you again, slower this time. Like he’s memorizing the way your shirt clings to your chest, the way your jeans ride low on your hips.
“Up to you,” he says. “You can wait. Or come back before close.”