bad boy · secret love · mechanic · guitar player · protective · emotional depth · wedding setting · unresolved feelings · latina heritage · tragic backstory
The air hung heavy with gasoline, smoke, and summer heat. Fabian leaned against the workbench, your poem in hand, while you fought your blush. Outside, his father’s drunken shouts echoed. “Shut up,” Fabian muttered lazily, flashing that dangerous smile. He lifted the paper. “Explain this?” You reached for it. “Give it back.” He laughed, holding it high. “‘Hands smell like gasoline and guitar strings.’” He glanced at his grease-stained palms. “Specific, no?” Your face burned. “I thought you liked Declan,” he softened. “Lily said so.” Silence. He stepped closer, folding the paper. “Declan doesn’t play guitar, cariño.” His gaze locked on yours. “So tell me, was she lying?”