THE first time you stepped into the WheelHouse, the place smelled like motor oil, cigarette smoke, and something distinctly masculine. Your father owned the mechanic shop, but you rarely visited until that summer three years ago. The summer heat made the garage feel like an oven, and that's when you first saw him - Toji Zenin, covered in grease, bent over the engine of a beat-up Toyota, his massive frame making the car look smaller than it was.

Your father always talked about Toji, his best mechanic who could diagnose engine problems just by listening to them. What your father didn't mention was how Toji's presence filled up any room he was in, or how his green eyes could pin you in place with just a look. You noticed the chain around his neck, the wedding ring that hung from it, and the way he kept to himself most of the time, speaking only when necessary.

Back then, Toji was going through his own personal hell. His wife's death was still fresh - just six months had passed since the accident. He lived in a small apartment above a laundromat, spent most of his time at the shop, and when he wasn't working, he was either drinking at home alone or tinkering with his Dodge Charger. The other mechanics said he hadn't taken a single day off since the funeral, like he was trying to work himself to death.

You started bringing lunch to the shop more often, initially just for your dad. But you’d always pack extra, leaving a container on Toji's workbench without saying anything. He never thanked you directly, but you’d find the empty containers cleaned and placed on your father's desk the next day. Sometimes your eyes would meet across the garage, and something unspoken would pass between you- a recognition of shared pain, maybe.

Your first real conversation happened late one night when you came to pick up your dad's forgotten medication. The shop was empty except for Toji, who was working late as usual. You found him cursing at a stubborn bolt under a lifted Subaru, his white shirt stained with grease. When you asked if he needed help holding the light, he just grunted and moved over, making space for you to crouch beside him.

That night turned into hours of conversation. You learned about his wife, about how they met in high school, about the accident that took her away. He learned about your mom walking out when you were twelve, about how you had to grow up fast, about you struggling to keep your grades up in med school while taking care of your dad.

After that night, something changed. You started finding excuses to visit the shop more often, and Toji started finding reasons to stay late. You developed this routine where you'd bring dinner, and you’d eat together sometimes, talking about everything and nothing. He was rough, used curse words like punctuation marks, and sometimes got motor oil on your clothes when he got too close. But you didn't mind - never mind.

Your first kiss wasn't romantic or planned. It happened during one of your late-night talks in his small office. You were sitting on his desk, laughing at some stupid joke he made, when he suddenly stood up, stepped between your thighs, and kissed you like a drowning man gasping for air. His hands were rough from work, leaving black smudges on your waist, but you didn't care. That kiss tasted like coffee and cigarettes and desperation.

The relationship that followed wasn't what you'd call healthy. Toji was still wearing his wedding ring on that chain. You kept it hidden from everyone, meeting in his apartment or staying late at the shop. He wasn't gentle with you- couldn't be, maybe didn't know how to be anymore. But that's not what you were looking for anyway. You wanted someone who understood what it felt like to be left behind, and he needed someone who didn't expect him to be okay.

---

There were nights when reality would hit you hard, usually when you’re alone in your room, staring at your ceiling. You’d think about how Toji still keeps photos of his dead wife in his wallet, how he only calls you when he needs something - usually his dick wet or when the memories of his wife become too heavy to bear alone.

You knew what this was. You’re not stupid. You are his backburner, his comfort fuck, his dirty little secret. The realization would sometimes hit you at 2 AM, making you curl up in your bed, silent tears soaking your pillow. Then, like clockwork, your phone would buzz - it's always him, always when you’re at your lowest, always when you’re questioning everything about your relationship.

The sex was always rough, bordering on brutal. Toji didn't know how to be gentle anymore - or maybe he just saved his gentleness for the memory of his wife. He'd bend you over whatever surface was available, pull your hair back until your scalp hurt, and fuck you like he was trying to forget something. The crazy part? It worked. When he was balls deep inside you, stretching you to your limit, making you see stars, you’d forget too.

"Come over," he'd text, or sometimes call if he's drunk enough. And like the fool you were, you’d wipe your tears, fix your makeup, and drive to his apartment above the laundromat. The whole place would smell like him - motor oil, cigarettes, and cheap whiskey. He never bothered to decorate much; the walls were bare except for one photo of his wife he couldn't bring himself to take down.

The moment you’d walk in, he’d pin you against the wall, and start fingering you without a word. You’d barely made it to his bedroom. Clothes were torn off, and suddenly you were face-down on his unmade bed, ass in the air. He’d spat between your legs, rubbed it into your already wet pussy, and then that huge cock was stretching you open. He never bothered with foreplay unless he was in a particularly good mood, but you’re always embarrassingly ready for him anyway.

"Such a good little slut for me," he grunted, pounding into you harder. His words should have disgusted you- you’re studying to be a doctor, for fuck's sake - but instead, they made your pussy clench around him. You’d never been this wet with anyone else, never let anyone else treat you this way. But Toji could do whatever he wanted to you, and you’d thank him for it.

It was fucked up how good he made you feel physically while destroying you emotionally. The way he'd make you squirt multiple times, the way he'd whisper dirty things in your ear, the way he'd manhandle your body like you weighed nothing - it was addictive.

Even when you caught him staring at his dead wife's photo while you were riding him, even when he'd push you away right after cumming, You'd forget how he never stays the night when you’d fuck at your place. Forget how he takes off his necklace with the wedding ring before sex, carefully placing it where he can see it. Forget how he never says your name during sex, just "baby" or "slut" or whatever dirty name comes to his mind. The pleasure would override everything else, making you ignore all the red flags that were practically screaming at you.

Sometimes he'd talk about his wife - how she loved this car, how she died in one just like it, how he couldn't save her. And you’d just sit there, cum leaking down your thighs, listening to him pine for another woman while wearing nothing but the marks he'd left on your skin.

Maybe it was growing up without a mother, maybe it was your father's emotional distance, or maybe you were just wired wrong. Whatever the reason, you kept going back to Toji's door, kept letting him break your heart in new ways.

---

The nights were always the hardest for you. Laying in your pink-walled bedroom, you’d often find yourself staring at your phone, waiting for that text or call from Toji. Tonight was no different. You had spent the last hour crying into your pillow, mascara staining the pillowcase as you thought about how you saw him flirting with some customer at the shop earlier.

The woman was probably closer to his age, sophisticated in a way you weren’t. The clock on your bedside table showed 11:43 PM when your phone finally buzzed with his name. Your heart jumped even though you hated yourself for it. His text was simple: “Come over.”

Not even a question, just a demand. You stared at those two words, mascara-stained tears still drying on your cheeks from crying earlier. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, wanting to type "no" for once, to tell him you weren’t just some toy he could pick up whenever he felt like it.

But ten minutes later, you were in your car, driving to his apartment. The streets were empty, and you could see your reflection in the rearview mirror - puffy eyes, messy hair, and wearing one of his old t-shirts you'd stolen months ago. You didn't even bother putting on makeup. He never cared anyway, as long as your spread your legs for him when he wanted.

Your thighs rubbing together under your loose sweatpants. You could already feel yourself getting wet, knowing what was coming. It was pathetic how your body responded to him, even when your mind was screaming at you to turn around.

When he opened the door, the smell of cigarettes and whiskey hit you first. Toji stood there, shirtless, his work pants hanging low on his hips. Those green eyes looked at you like he wanted to devour you, and just like that, all your earlier crying and self-pity melted away. He grabbed your arm, pulled you inside, and before you could even say hi, his mouth was on yours, tasting like cheap bourbon and bad decisions.

His hands were rough when they grabbed your ass, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. He always marked you up, as if trying to prove something. The wall was cold against your back as he pressed against you, his massive frame making you feel tiny. You could feel his hard cock through his pants, pressing against your stomach.

"Been thinking about this pussy all day," he growled in your ear, making you whimper.