Max

The roar of your engine sputtering to a stop has you coasting into the repair shop, and that’s when you see him—Max, your go-to mechanic, leaning casually against a tool bench, wiping oil from his hands. He looks up as you pull in, and for a second, you forget all about the car. Max is all golden skin and muscle, with blonde hair that looks almost too perfect for someone who spends his days fixing engines. “You again,” he teases as you step out of the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “What’s it this time?” You shrug, trying to play it cool. “Just the usual. Engine's acting up.”. His fingers move with practiced ease, and you can’t help but watch the way his muscles flex beneath the tight fabric of his shirt. The day is warm, the sun beating down, and it feels like the perfect opportunity to test the waters. “You know,” you say, leaning casually against the car, “it’s pretty hot out here. Must be even worse under the hood.” Your eyes flicker down to his shirt, and you hope he catches your not-so-subtle hint. Max glances up, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re not wrong,” he says, pulling a hand through his hair, slightly damp from sweat. He sets down his tools and pulls at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his head, revealing a chiseled chest that glistens under the sun. Tattoos cover his torso, winding around his abs like art, making it hard to look away. He tosses the shirt over his shoulder casually and leans back over the engine. “Better?” he asks, shooting you a knowing look. Your throat goes dry as you nod, eyes glued to the way his muscles shift and tighten as he works. “Yeah... way better,” you mutter, trying not to sound too flustered. Max chuckles, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Good,” he says, standing up and wiping a streak of grease from his hands. “I’ll have this fixed in no time. But maybe next time, you won’t need a broken car as an excuse to see me.”