The garage door groaned upward on Saturday morning, dragging a thick slice of pale light across the concrete floor. I stepped inside behind him, my bare feet cool against the dust, denim shorts riding high on my thighs with every step. I’d picked them out the night before, the kind that hung loose but clung when I moved, frayed at the hem, leaving my knees and legs exposed to the cool air. The space smelled of old rubber, motor oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of the winter bleeding out of the tread. He flipped the overhead switch. The bulb buzzed, casting long, rigid shadows across the workbench. The hood of his car was already up, propped wide, waiting.
“Alright, baby girl,” he said, his voice low, already settling over me like a heavy blanket. “Today we learn the basics. Oil, tires, flat. You’ll know your way around this machine before I know it.”
He stepped aside, giving me room, but I could feel his eyes tracking me before I even turned. I walked to the engine bay and bent at the waist, leaning over the dark cavity. The denim shorts pulled tight across my backside, the fabric riding up just enough to leave my thighs bare. The metal radiated heat through my palms. Before I could even find the dipstick, he was there. Too close. His chest pressed against my back, solid and warm, his breath a slow, even draft against the nape of my neck. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to.
His hands came over mine, covering my fingers where they hovered near the dipstick. His skin was rough, calloused from years of work, but his touch was deliberate, guiding me to pull, to wipe, to slide back in. I watched his knuckles, the way his thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, but the words he was murmuring about viscosity and quart sizes blurred into background noise. I only heard the rumble in his chest, felt the steady press of him behind me, the way his hips aligned just so against my lower back. The engine ticked as it cooled, but my own pulse was louder, a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
“Right there,” he whispered, his mouth so close to my ear I felt the vibration. “Pull it out slow. Watch the oil. Dark means it’s time. Light and golden means you’re good.”
His hands didn’t leave. He held my wrists, kept me anchored, and I let him. The shorts had ridden up further, leaving my thighs bare, and I could feel the warmth of his legs against mine when I shifted. I didn’t care. I wanted him to stay like this, chest to my back, breath on my neck, hands mapping the spaces between my fingers. He explained the oil cap, the dipstick tube, the little rubber plug, but I wasn’t listening. I was listening to his heartbeat through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, feeling the way his weight settled into me, the way his breath hitched just slightly when I inhaled too deeply.
“You’re doing good,” he murmured, and the praise made my stomach flip.
We moved to the tires next. He knelt, and I followed, sitting on the curb with my legs drawn to the side. The denim shorts whispered against the concrete as I adjusted my position. He handed me the pressure gauge, and his fingers brushed mine, lingering. He showed me how to press it onto the valve stem, how to read the numbers, how to listen for the hiss of escaping air. When he reached over to guide my hand, his knee pressed between my thighs, and I felt the hard line of him through the thin fabric. I didn’t move it. I just watched his face, the way his eyes dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to the gauge. His thumb traced the inside of my wrist again, slow, deliberate, and I felt it all the way down to my core.
“Thirty-two,” he said, voice lower now. “That’s the sweet spot. You mark it. You remember it.”
I nodded, but my throat felt tight. The gauge slipped from my fingers, and he caught them, turning my hand over to press a fresh mark on the valve stem. His breath was warm, his chest just a few inches from my shoulder. I could smell him—sweat, motor oil, soap, something deeply masculine and entirely his. When he finally let go, the sudden absence of him left me feeling hollow, like a door had been shut in a quiet room. I wanted him to lean back in. I wanted him to press me against the fender and show me everything at once. I didn’t understand why my skin felt too tight, why my hips shifted slightly without permission, why the air between us felt thick enough to choke on.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just nervous.”
He smiled, slow and knowing, and it undid something in me. “You’ll be fine, baby girl.”
He didn’t let me stay nervous for long. He stood, brushing dust from his jeans, and gestured toward the spare. “Now we change a flat. Watch closely. Then you do it.”
I followed him to the side of the car, my legs feeling unsteady, my shorts clinging to my skin with every step. He knelt again, and I crouched beside him, our knees almost touching. He lifted the jack, showed me how to slot it under the frame, how to turn the handle until the car lifted just enough. Then came the lug nuts. He handed me the wrench, and I gripped it, my hands shaking slightly. He stepped behind me, his chest once again against my back, his arms wrapping around my waist to steady me. His hands covered mine on the wrench, his fingers interlacing with mine, and I felt the heat of him seep through the thin cotton of my shorts.
“Loosen them first,” he guided, his voice a low hum against my shoulder. “Don’t take them all the way out. Just break the torque. You feel that?”
I felt it. The resistance, the click, the way his body moved with mine. His weight shifted, pressing me back into him, and I let out a shaky breath. His thumb rubbed slow circles over my knuckles, right where the skin was thin, and I felt a sudden, sharp pull low in my belly. I didn’t know what it was. I just knew I wanted him to keep doing it, to keep his mouth at my neck, to keep his hands on me until I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began.
“Again,” he murmured, turning my wrist slightly, showing me how to apply pressure. “Nice and steady. You’ve got it.”
I didn’t take my eyes off the lug nuts, but I felt his breath on my collarbone, felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my spine. The garage was quiet except for the scrape of metal, the hum of the overhead light, the soft sound of his breathing. When he finally stepped back, I felt the cold air rush into the space he’d left, and I hated it. I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to pull my shorts down and show me what it felt like when he didn’t hold back. I didn’t understand the way my thighs parted slightly without meaning to, the way my skin prickled, the way my pulse jumped in my throat.
“You did good,” he said, watching me. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his jaw was tight. He reached out, brushed a stray hair from my forehead, and his fingers lingered on my cheek. “You’re learning. You’re mine.”
The words hit me like a wave. I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. He smiled, slow and certain, and turned back to the car. I stayed on my knees, shorts riding up, skin still warm where he’d touched me, heart hammering against my ribs. The garage felt smaller now. The air thicker. I was still waiting for him to come back. Still waiting to feel him press me against the fender and finally tell me what I was feeling.