Our fingers brushed during the key exchange, just a whisper of contact that shouldn’t have registered. But his hands were warm, slightly rough with calluses, and my body pulsed for a single beat.
“Go on inside,” Jackson said, opening my car door. “Might as well see what crimes against automotive engineering we’re dealing with.”
Entering the garage felt like entering Jackson’s natural habitat. Everything here made sense. The neat rows of tools, the hydraulic lifts, the careful organization that spoke to a disciplined mind. Unlike the chaos of my apartment where clean laundry lived on chairs and important documents hid under pizza boxes.
Jackson’s pulled my car in, ignoring the banshee sound as he maneuvered into one of the bays. When he killed the engine, the resulting silence felt almost holy after the cacophony of dying metal.
“Not so bad, right?” I asked, aiming for light humor and overshooting the landing by a mile.
“Heard worse.” He pulled his overalls the rest of the way on, robbing me of the perfect view. “Remember Mrs. Chen’s van? It sounded like someone stuffed a cat in a blender.”
“Poor comparison,” I huffed indignantly. “Cats have dignity.”
Another laugh, softer this time. Jackson popped the hood without bending to see where the latch was, then leaned over to examine the engine while I examined him. Even in high school he’d had a perfect body, and it had only gotten better with time. The position pulled his coveralls tight across his shoulders, outlining muscle earned through actual work rather than gym memberships.
“See this?” He beckoned me closer, pointing at something mysterious in my engine. “Your alternator’s about to give up the ghost. And these belts...” His finger traced along black rubber that looked perfectly normal to me. “They’re one pothole away from snapping.”
Standing beside him, I caught that intoxicating mix of soap and sweat that clung to his skin. His shoulder pressed against mine as he explained each problem, voice dropping into that deeper register that made my knees unreliable.
“Basically, your car’s held together by spite and prayer,” he concluded, but his tone held affection rather than judgment.
“Sounds about right for my life in general.”
His laugh rumbled through the space between us. “Don’t sell yourself short, hon.”
Hon? When had Jackson started using endearments with me?
Reaching for a different tool, his arm brushed across my chest. I thought nothing of it since he was working, but my body refused to believe it had been casual.
Jackson straightened, and suddenly we were standing close enough that I could see the individual lashes framing those impossibly green eyes. “You’re lucky this thing hasn't stranded you on the highway.”
The comment made me think of that rainy night.
“Guess I need a better mechanic.” The words came out breathy when I’d meant them to be teasing.
“Guess you do.” Jackson’s voice had dropped half an octave. Then he turned back to the engine, pointing out problems with the dedication of a museum curator explaining priceless artifacts. “Your alternator's struggling, probably why your battery keeps dying. The timing belt needs replacing yesterday. And whatever’s happening with your exhaust system defies several laws of physics.”
Each explanation came with casual touches, a hand on my shoulder to guide me to a better viewing angle, fingers brushing mine as Jackson pointed out corroded connections. Nothing inappropriate, nothing that crossed friendship boundaries, but each contact felt branding.
“This is going to take more than one visit. Probably three or four, depending on parts availability.”
It was too much information at once.
His hand landed on my arm, thumb brushing the inside of my elbow. “I've got time after hours. Rather do it myself than have someone else half-ass it.”
I was speechless. Still the same thoughtful guy now as he’d been back then.
“Besides,” he continued, still touching my arm like my entire nervous system wasn’t rewiring, “gives us an excuse to hang out. Already told you I missed that.”
A drop of something, oil, probably, splattered onto my cheek. Before I could wipe it away, Jackson’s thumb swept across my skin, the touch feather-light but searing. His hand lingered, thumb resting against my cheekbone, and the garage noise faded to white static.
“You had some...” His voice was almost intimate.
“Grease?”
“Yeah.” But he didn’t move away. His thumb traced another slow path across my cheek, and this time there was definitely nothing to wipe away. “Oliver...”
The moment stretched, dangerous and delicate. Then someone dropped something in the back of the garage, the clang shattering whatever spell had woven itself around us.
