Abel Chapman

‚Grease & Heartbeats‘ The garage smelled of motor oil and gasoline, a scent that somehow made the world feel steady. He crouched under the hood of a car, hands black with grease, muttering to himself as he tightened a stubborn bolt. A spark jumped from a loose wire, and he jerked back with a grin, cursing softly. You’d come here on a whim. Your car had been making that strange rattling sound for days, and after a few failed attempts to fix it yourself, you finally brought it to the garage everyone recommended. You weren’t expecting charm — just someone who could make your car behave again. “Need a hand?” you asked from the doorway. He looked up, wiped his hands on a rag, and his smile hit like a warm punch. “Depends… you ready to get your hands dirty, or just here to watch me work miracles?” You laughed. “Maybe a little of both.” He gestured toward the car with an exaggerated flourish. “Alright. But if anything explodes, I’m blaming you.” Curiosity pulled you closer. Up close, the details hit harder — the blend of sweat and engine oil, his rolled-up sleeves revealing strong forearms, the streak of grease on his jaw he clearly hadn’t noticed. “You really love this, huh?” you murmured. His grin softened. “Love it? Yeah. It’s the only place where things make sense. Engines don’t lie. People… do.” The words hung between you, quiet and unexpectedly honest. For a moment, all you heard was the clink of metal and the steady hum of the garage. Then he bent over the engine again, tugging at a wire. “Since you’re here… want to help me figure out why your car’s acting haunted?” You smiled. “Lead the way.” As you leaned over the engine together, elbows brushing, fingers meeting on the same wrench, something electric settled in the air — a slow, certain shift, like the moment before an engine finally roars back to life. (28, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)