Roadside. Pt.2 (mechanic Simon Riley AU)
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You were utterly screwed.
It starts small—quiet, almost forgettable. A thought that drifts in when you’re brushing your teeth, when you’re staring at your phone, when the world goes still for just a second too long.
You tell yourself it’s normal. You broke down in the middle of nowhere, some stranger helped you, fixed your car like it was nothing, called you something soft in that rough voice of his—
Anyone would think about that, right?
Sits in the passenger seat like something unseen, something patient. You catch yourself glancing over more than once, like you expect him to be there—elbow resting against the window, eyes half-lidded, watching the road like it belongs to him.
But the feeling doesn’t leave.
That night, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Every time you close your eyes, it’s there again—the road, the quiet, the weight of his gaze when he looked at you like he was trying to figure something out.
Or maybe like he already had.
Your fingers curl in the sheets.
Grease-stained. Steady. Careful in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.
Not fixing your car this time.
Just—holding something. Holding you.
Your breath catches, soft and shallow in the dark.
“…stupid.” you whisper to yourself.
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You start looking for him without meaning to.
Every truck that passes, your eyes flick up. Every low voice in a store makes your head turn just slightly too fast. You catch glimpses of broad shoulders, dark hoodies, hands that almost look like his—
It leaves something sour in your chest every time.
You start replaying the moment more precisely now.
The way he said your name.
The way he paused when you said you were alone.
The way his voice changed—just slightly—when he called you dove.
That one sticks the most.
It sinks its teeth in and refuses to let go.
You hear it when you’re alone.
In the spaces between thoughts.
Your stomach twists every time.
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You start wondering things.
What he does when he’s not pulling over on empty roads.
Who he is when no one’s looking.
If he remembers your name the way you remember his.
You say it under your breath sometimes, just to hear it.
You let it settle in your mouth like a flavor you don’t want gone.
It never feels like enough.
It gets to the point where it’s not just thoughts anymore.
A low, steady pull that never quite loosens.
You find yourself retracing the road where it happened.
Then a third time, slower.
Like maybe he’ll just be there again.
Like maybe he exists only in that stretch of empty road and nowhere else.
But the road stays empty.
And the quiet feels heavier now.
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You sit in your car afterward, engine idling.
Your fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel.
You force yourself to be rational.
He knew what he was doing.
Not just basic knowledge—instinct.
The way his hands moved, the way he didn’t hesitate, didn’t guess.
“…mechanic.” you say softly.
No one is… just like that.
A small smile pulls at your mouth.
Relief mixes with something sharper. Anticipation.
Something like excitement.
now he’s not just a ghost on a road.
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The shop isn’t hard to find.
There’s only a few in town, and only one that feels… right.
You don’t know how to explain it.
Just a pull in your chest as you drive past it the first time. Something quiet but insistent.
The building is nothing special. Rusted signage, garage doors half open, the distant sound of metal clinking and tools shifting.
But your pulse picks up anyway.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel.
What are you even going to say?
“Hi, I’ve been thinking about you nonstop since you fixed my car on the side of the road like something out of a dream.”
You huff out a quiet breath.
You get out of the car anyway.
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The air inside the shop is different.
Warmer. Thicker. Smells like oil and metal and something faintly electric.
Your footsteps slow as you step in, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light.
There are voices somewhere deeper in the garage. Tools clatter. A radio hums low in the background.
Your heart doesn’t agree.
It’s beating too fast now. Too loud in your ears.
Cars lifted on racks. Open hoods. A man you don’t recognize moving past with a wrench in hand.
You take another step in.
Half-shadowed, leaning over the open hood of a car like the world narrows down to just that space and his hands.
Familiar, deliberate movements.
Like your body recognizes him before your mind can catch up.
He shifts slightly, and you see it—
the line of his shoulders, the tilt of his head—
Your fingers curl at your sides.
Something in your chest pulls tight. Sharp. Certain.
Like this was always going to happen.
Like you were always going to find your way back to him.
He hasn’t noticed you yet.
But there’s a pause in his movement.
Like something just brushed the edge of his awareness.
You take one more step forward.
Those eyes find you immediately.
The air between you goes still.
Everything else—the noise, the movement, the other men working around you—fades into something distant and unimportant.
And the quiet, dangerous feeling that settles deep in your chest when his gaze sharpens slightly, like he’s seeing something he remembers too well.
Wipes his hands on a rag without breaking eye contact.
And even from across the shop—
That same thread from the road.
“…Dove.” he says it low enough that it shouldn’t carry—
And you realize, standing there in the dim light with oil in the air and his eyes locked on yours—
you didn’t just come here to find him.
You came here because something in you knew he’d be waiting.
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