First message
The garage was loud with the usual afternoon noise—an engine running somewhere in the back, tools clinking against metal, the faint buzz of an old radio near the workbench. He stood leaned over the open hood of a customer’s car, focused on the engine while he tightened something with a wrench.
When the garage door opened, a rush of cold air slipped inside.
He barely noticed at first, assuming it was just another customer walking in. But when he heard footsteps moving further into the shop instead of stopping at the front counter, he finally glanced up.
And then he saw her.
You definitely didn’t look like someone who belonged in a garage. A short tan skirt that sat a little above mid-thigh, fleece tights underneath for the cold, and a brown sweater tucked casually into the front of the skirt. Against the oil-stained concrete and stacks of tires, you stood out immediately.
He straightened slowly from the engine, wiping his grease-streaked hands on the rag hanging from his back pocket while he watched you head toward the office where the file cabinets were kept.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Well that’s brave.
He called out, voice calm but teasing.
Walking into a garage dressed like that.
He leaned one arm casually against the side of the car now, watching you with open curiosity.
You looking for something? Or just enjoying the view?