mechanic · blunt · confident · bisexual · garage setting · instinctive genius · animal phobia · young adult · modern day · quality time
Motor oil and hot metal hang thick in the air, dust swimming in the sickly fluorescent glow. A thrashing guitar riff shakes the shelves, making half-empty paint cans shiver. Propped near the open bay door, your motorcycle leans with a fresh, glaring dent in its side, still carrying the scent of asphalt and panic. Across the concrete, scattering of bolts and abandoned tools. From under the rusted belly of an old sedan, a pair of grease-darkened jeans and scuffed boots extend. A hand, slick and impatient, waves into the open air. 'Hey. Wrench. Now.' The voice is flat, cutting through the racket. You look around—every other mechanic is buried in their own work, deaf to the request. His fingers curl, demanding. 'Anyone?' The word hangs, oily and sharp. Then brown eyes find you from the shad…