JOHN LOGAN

It was Saturday, which meant the shop was technically closed, which meant Logan's father was somewhere else — probably at O'Malley's, three beers deep, and not coming back until Sunday morning with a headache and a mouthful of excuses.

Logan didn't mind the solitude. He'd grown up in this shop, had learned to change his first oil filter before he could tie his shoes, had spent more hours beneath these hydraulic lifts than he had in any classroom. The garage was his church, his sanctuary, the one place where the world made sense in a way that hockey and college and the crushing weight of his future never quite managed. Here, problems had solutions. Engines could be fixed. Broken things could be made whole again.

He was wrist-deep in the guts of a Ford F-150 when he heard the door open, the bell above it chiming with a sound like a coin dropping into a glass. He didn't need to look up to know it was you. He'd developed a sixth sense for your presence over the past few months, a tuning fork in his chest that vibrated whenever you were near. It was pathetic, really. The kind of thing he'd have mocked relentlessly if any of his teammates admitted to it. But here he was, chocolate-brown eyes snapping toward the entrance before his brain had even finished processing the sound of your footsteps.

You stood in the doorway like a fever dream that had wandered into the wrong movie set. All pink — pink skirt, pink sneakers, pink scrunchie holding back that silky hair of yours. You looked like a bubblegum commercial, like a cotton candy machine had exploded and you'd walked through the fallout, completely unbothered.

"Hey," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended, edged with surprise and something warmer he didn't want to name. He wiped his hands on the rag tucked into his back pocket, leaving dark smears on the denim, and straightened up from the engine block. "Didn't know you were coming by, babe."

You'd shaken your head, your lower lip caught between your teeth in that expression that did absolutely criminal things to his blood pressure, and you'd drifted toward the folding chair in the corner — the one he'd dragged out for you last week, the one that had become yours by some unspoken treaty — and you'd sat down, crossing your legs in a way that made his wrench slip and nearly strip a bolt.

"Just come to watch you," you'd said, and your voice had been soft, almost dreamy, the voice you used when you were thinking about something that definitely wasn't automotive repair.

And now, twenty minutes later, Logan could still feel your eyes on him. Not just looking — devouring. He could feel your gaze like warm hands sliding over his skin, tracing the line of his shoulders where the t-shirt strained against muscle, the curve of his spine as he leaned into the engine, the length of his legs in the worn jeans that sat low on his hips. He could feel it when you looked at his hands, oil-blackened and competent, and he could feel it when you looked at his face, at the sweat that had gathered at his temples, at the way his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip in concentration.

It was making him hard. Which was inconvenient, because he was currently trying to remove a seized alternator and his hands were covered in grease and there was a very real possibility he was going to injure himself if he couldn't focus.

He straightened up, rolling his shoulders to crack the stiffness from his spine, and reached for the rag again, wiping his forehead and probably smearing more oil across his skin in the process. He caught sight of himself in the side mirror of the Ford — hair a disaster, face streaked with grime, a dark smudge on his neck that looked like a bruise but was definitely just Valvoline. He looked nothing like the guy who stepped out of the shower smelling of cologne and wrapped in a towel, the version of himself you usually saw, the version that was clean and polished and carefully assembled.

He turned to face you, intending to make a joke about it. Something self-deprecating, something about how you were staring at a grease monster and maybe you should get your eyes checked. He opened his mouth, ready to deploy the smirk.

But then he saw your face.

You were leaning forward in the folding chair, your elbows on your knees, your chin resting in your palms, and your eyes were... hungry. There was no other word for it. They were dark and heavy-lidded and fixed on him with an intensity that made his breath catch in his throat and the joke die unborn on his tongue. You weren't looking at him like he was a mess. You were looking at him like he was a meal you wanted to consume in slow bites.

He set down the wrench with a clatter, and he wiped his hands again, slower this time, watching you watch him do it. Your gaze followed the movement of his fingers, the way they gripped the rag, the way they flexed and released. You licked your lower lip, and he felt it in his cock like a physical touch.

"You know," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended, "if you keep looking at me like that, I'm gonna start thinking you actually like me or something.”

You didn't answer; just tilted your head, hair falling over one shoulder in a waterfall of silk, and your eyes dropped to his chest, then his stomach, and to the obvious strain in his jeans that he was no longer bothering to hide. Your expression didn't change but your cheeks flushed pink, a color that matched your outfit, and made you look edible.

Logan felt his face heat. Actually, literally heat. John Logan, who had slept with half the female population of Briar University, who had once had a threesome in a supply closet during a hockey party, who had been told by no less than three separate women that he had "the confidence of a god," was blushing!

He crossed the space between them in long strides, his boots heavy on the concrete, and he stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him.

"You're filthy," you mouthed, or maybe you said it aloud — Logan couldn't tell, because his heartbeat was suddenly too loud in his ears, a bass drum that drowned out everything else. You reached out, your fingers hovering over his chest without touching, tracing the air above the sweat-darkened fabric of his tank, and Logan felt his breath catch in his throat, felt his body respond to the nearness of you with a speed that was almost embarrassing.

"Yeah," he managed, and his voice was rough, scraped raw by the heat in your eyes. "That's what happens when you spend four hours under a truck. I'm basically a grease monster at this point. Very sexy, I know. Total thirst trap."

Your hand finally landed on his chest, your palm flat against the damp cotton, and Logan felt the touch like a lightning strike, like the exact moment a hockey puck connected with the sweet spot of the blade and everything went perfectly, beautifully still. Your fingers spread, exploring the ridges of his pecs… the hard plane of his stomach… You bit your lower lip, teeth sinking into the soft flesh with a pressure that made Logan's mouth water, and then your hand drifted lower, tracing the waistband of his jeans, your fingertips brushing the skin just above the denim, and he felt himself harden with a speed that was almost painful, his cock straining against the zipper of his work pants like it was trying to reach you on its own.