Slutty Husband @sluttyhusband - Tumblr Blog

May 6

DOWN & DIRTY

I wanna get, you wanna get, let’s go and get down and dirty, baby

༘♡ ·˚꒰ tom holland 𝐱 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

➤ 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔, After months of sacrifice and overtime shifts, Tom, your mechanic and devoted boyfriend—finally secures the dream home you and he have longed for. Though when you learn that Tom had to work late, you refused to let him face another long night alone.

➤ 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂, FLUFF. SEXUAL THEMES. MECHANIC—TOM.

➤ 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎, 9.7k

➤ 𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍’𝙎 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀, here we are with Tommy’s fic—the last of my list. A nice little ending to the trilogy of Mechanic Tom! Also good news, I got grades back for this semester and the hard work was total worth it—ugh🥹. Now we prepare for more fics, so until then enjoy your reading!

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 be seen stepping out through the house's front door, which still didn't feel completely real.

Your dream home.

Even now, with boxes stacked in corners, furniture half-assembled, and little strips of painter's tape marking where shelves and artwork were supposed to go, the place still made your chest tighten every time you looked at it. It was yours. Yours and Tom's. Not a cramped apartment with thin walls, a rattling dresser, and neighbors who thought sunrise was an invitation to act reckless. Not a temporary place you both kept promising to leave "one day." This was the place Tom had worked himself down to the bone for. This was the goal he had carried through long nights, early mornings, aching hands, and grease-streaked uniforms.

Tom had finally done it.

He had gotten you two a home.

The front porch still smelled faintly of fresh wood and paint, the kind of clean, new scent that came with a place still becoming lived in. A pair of unopened moving boxes sat against the wall near the entryway, labeled KITCHEN — FRAGILE in your handwriting, even though half the fragile things had somehow already ended up on the dining room table. The doormat was new, the lock still had that satisfying firmness when you turned the key, and the little garden bed along the walkway was empty for now—but you already had plans for it. Flowers, maybe herbs, maybe something bright enough to make Tom smile when he came home exhausted.

You paused on the porch for a second after locking the door, letting yourself look back at the house.

The evening light washed over it softly, painting the windows in gold. It wasn't a mansion, but it was perfect. Warm. Private. Yours. A place with enough room to breathe. Enough room for Tom's tools in the garage, enough room for your things without everything feeling squeezed together, enough room for the future you both had talked about in sleepy whispers and tired kitchen conversations.

You smiled to yourself before heading down the walkway, keys jingling in your hand.

The two of you were still in the middle of moving in, which meant life felt like a beautiful mess. One room looked nearly finished; the next looked like a storage unit had exploded. The couch was finally in the living room, but the coffee table was still wrapped in plastic. The bedroom had a mattress, a dresser, and three boxes of clothes that neither of you had the energy to unpack properly. The kitchen was mostly functional, if you ignored the fact that the plates were in one cabinet, the bowls were in another, and the silverware was currently living in a drawer with batteries, tape, and two random screwdrivers.

Still, none of that mattered.

Because it was home.

Your home.

You had just gotten off work, and the day had left that familiar weight in your body—the kind that settled into your shoulders, your lower back, and behind your eyes. All you had really wanted was to get back home, kick off your shoes, maybe unpack one box so you could feel productive, and then collapse somewhere soft until Tom came home.

But before you even made it fully into relaxation mode, your phone buzzed.

You had been standing near the kitchen island, looking at a box labeled PANTRY with deep suspicion, when the message came through.

Tom ❤️:

Love, I'm working late tonight. Something's wrong with one of the main rotation valves. Don't wait up for me, yeah? I'll grab something later.

You stared at the text for a moment, lips pressing together.

Of course he was working late.

Tom Holland, your sweet, stubborn, workaholic boyfriend, could not simply come home at a reasonable hour. Not when there was some broken cosmic mechanism, some busted rotation valve, some daylight regulator, or some nightfall gear that needed his hands on it. As the Day-Night Mechanic, his work wasn't regular work. He wasn't fixing ordinary cars or changing oil for impatient customers.

He worked on the systems that helped keep the world moving.

The hidden mechanics behind sunrise and sunset. The engines that pulled dawn over the horizon. The pressure valves that balanced moonlight. The great moving parts most people never thought about because they expected morning to come and night to fall like magic.

But you knew better.

You knew there were nights when Tom came home with grease beneath his nails and exhaustion in his bones because somewhere, somehow, the sky had needed fixing.

You typed back quickly.

You:

You better not be planning to survive on vending machine crisps and coffee again.

The three typing dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again.

Tom ❤️:

I would never.

You snorted.

You:

Liar.

A second later:

Tom ❤️:

Maybe a small coffee.

You shook your head, already making your decision.

He was not going to work another long night on an empty stomach. Not after everything he had done to get the two of you here. Not after all those months of saving, sacrificing, taking extra shifts, picking up jobs no one else wanted, and coming home with tired eyes but still enough love in him to kiss your forehead and ask about your day.

So instead of changing into house clothes, you grabbed your keys again.

You moved through the half-unpacked kitchen, stepping around a box of pans and a roll of packing paper that had somehow unspooled itself across the floor. You checked the stove even though you hadn't used it, flicked off the hallway light, and grabbed one of Tom's hoodies from the back of a chair because the evening had a slight chill to it. The hoodie smelled faintly like him—soap, clean cotton, and the metallic trace of the shop that always clung to him no matter how much he showered.

You slipped it on, grabbed your wallet, and headed back out.

The air outside was cool enough to make you tuck your hands into the hoodie pocket as you walked to your car. The neighborhood was peaceful in a way your old apartment building rarely was. No bass rattling the walls. No shouting through hallways. No elevator groaning like it was fighting for its life. Just the soft rustle of trees, a distant dog barking, and the quiet hum of someone's porch light flickering on as dusk began to settle.

You slid into the driver's seat and started the car, already picturing Tom at the shop.

You knew exactly how he would look.

Sleeves pushed up. Hair messy from running his hands through it too many times. A streak of grease on his forearm or along his jaw that he wouldn't notice until you pointed it out. Brow furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted as he studied whatever massive machine had decided to ruin his evening. He would be tired but focused, probably refusing to admit he needed a break.

Which was why you were bringing the break to him.

You pulled out of the driveway and headed toward your favorite restaurant, the one you and Tom loved because it never missed. It was the kind of place that knew your usual order by now, the kind of place with warm lighting, good portions, and food that could make even Tom stop mid-sentence and close his eyes after the first bite.

As you drove, the sky above you shifted slowly, evening stretching itself across the city in deep blues and soft oranges. You wondered, not for the first time, if Tom had helped tune that color into existence earlier in the day. If some part of the sunset was his doing. If the world had any idea how much of its beauty rested in the hands of a man who forgot to eat unless you reminded him.

By the time you pulled up to the restaurant, your mind was already building the order.

Something hearty for Tom. Something warm. Maybe the pasta he loved, extra bread on the side because he always pretended he didn't want it and then ate most of yours. A dessert too, because he deserved it. Because he had gotten you a house. Because he was still working late. Because loving Tom often meant feeding him before his body remembered it needed food.

You parked, grabbed your phone, and sent one more text before heading inside.

You:

Don't eat anything suspicious. I'm bringing dinner.

His reply came fast.

Tom ❤️:

You don't have to, darling.

You smiled, already stepping toward the restaurant doors.

You:

I know. I want to.

And with that, you walked inside, ready to pick up dinner and take it straight to the Mechanic Shop—straight to the man who had worked so hard to build a future with you, one sunrise, one long night, and one impossible dream at a time.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 at the shop just as the evening had settled into that deep blue hour, when the last traces of sunlight were almost gone and the streetlights had begun flickering awake one by one. The Mechanic Shop sat at the edge of town with its big garage doors half-open, warm yellow light spilling out onto the cracked pavement in long rectangles. The sign above the building buzzed faintly, one letter blinking slower than the others, and the smell of rubber, motor oil, metal, and old concrete greeted you before you even made it to the entrance.

You stepped out of the car with the bags of food in your hand, the warmth of the containers pressing through the paper and filling the air with the smell of seasoned fries, grilled meat, sauce, and fresh bread. It was a much better smell than the sharp tang of gasoline coming from the shop, though you had grown used to that scent over time. It was impossible not to when Tom came home carrying it on his clothes, his hands, his skin, and sometimes even in his hair after a long shift.

The shop was quieter than usual.

Too quiet.

Normally, there would be at least two or three other mechanics moving around—someone rolling a tire across the floor, someone arguing with a stubborn lift, someone blasting old rock music from a speaker in the corner. But tonight, there was no laughter, no tools clattering from multiple bays, no voices calling across the garage.

Just one sound.

The steady, focused rhythm of Tom working.

You followed the noise deeper inside, your shoes tapping softly against the concrete floor. The main office was empty, the front desk light still on, a half-empty coffee cup abandoned beside a stack of invoices. A calendar on the wall had grease fingerprints smudged across the corner. The waiting area chairs sat untouched, and the vending machine hummed lazily like it was the only thing keeping the building company.

Then you saw him.

Tom was in the main garage bay, bent over the open hood of a 1964 Chevy Camaro, completely absorbed in what he was doing. The car was beautiful, even half-disassembled beneath the shop lights. Its classic body sat low and powerful, all old-school muscle and sharp lines, the paint catching the overhead glow in glossy flashes. The hood was propped open, exposing the engine like a puzzle Tom was determined to solve with nothing but patience, skill, and stubbornness.

And Tom looked unfairly good doing it.

He had on a fitted black T-shirt that clung to his shoulders, chest, and arms in a way that made it impossible not to stare. Every time he shifted, the fabric pulled against his muscles, showing the strength built from long hours lifting parts, tightening bolts, and fighting with machinery that refused to cooperate. His blue jeans hung low on his hips, worn in all the right places, with a faint smear of grease near one thigh. On his feet were brown Timbs, scuffed at the toes from actual work instead of fashion, planted firmly against the concrete like he had no intention of leaving until the Camaro behaved.

Oil was smeared across him in several places. A dark streak marked one forearm. Another smudge kissed the side of his neck. There was a faint line of grease near his jaw, probably from him brushing his wrist there without thinking. His curls were messy, pushed back from his face but falling forward again as he leaned over the engine. The shop light caught the curve of his cheek, the furrow of his brow, the focused set of his mouth.

He was so locked in that he didn't even notice you come in.

You stood there for a moment, just watching him.

There was something intimate about seeing Tom like this—quiet, focused, in his element. He wasn't the sleepy boyfriend you had left in bed that morning. He wasn't the man who had laughed against your forehead after dealing with an obnoxious neighbor. He wasn't even the exhausted dreamer who had worked so hard to buy the two of you a home.

Here, he was all concentration.

Hands steady. Eyes sharp. Body moving with practiced confidence.

He reached for a wrench without looking, fingers finding it by memory on the tool cart beside him. He adjusted something near the engine block, muttered under his breath, then paused to listen as if the car itself was speaking to him in a language only he understood. The radio was off. The entire garage seemed to orbit around the small sounds he made—the scrape of metal, the click of a tool, the soft exhale when something finally loosened.

You set the bags of food down on a nearby workbench, careful not to put them too close to anything greasy. The paper crinkled softly, but Tom still didn't look up.

You smiled to yourself.

Of course he didn't notice.

You crossed the space between you quietly, stepping around a coiled air hose and a tray of sockets. The smell of oil grew stronger the closer you got, warm and metallic, mixed with the faint scent of Tom's soap beneath it. It should have been unpleasant, but it wasn't. Not really. You had smelled it on him too many times for it to feel separate from him anymore. It was part of the Tom who came home late, tired but smiling. The Tom who kissed you at the door with grease still under his nails. The Tom who tried to sneak into bed without waking you but always ended up pulling you close anyway.

So when you reached him, you didn't hesitate.

You slipped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your chest gently to his back.

Tom jolted.

"Jesus—!" he gasped, wrench clinking against the edge of the engine as his whole body startled. His shoulders jumped beneath your hands, and he twisted just enough to look back at you, wide-eyed for half a second before recognition softened his face. "Love, you scared the hell out of me."

You laughed quietly, tightening your arms around him. "That's what you get for being so focused you don't hear me come in."

His expression shifted into that tired, affectionate smile that always made something in you melt. "I was listening to the engine."

"You were ignoring the entire world."

"Same thing sometimes." Tom replied.

You rested your cheek against his back for a moment, feeling the warmth of him through the black cotton. The shirt smelled like him and the shop—clean skin, sweat, motor oil, and grease. Not fresh-from-the-shower Tom, but work Tom. Dedicated Tom. The version of him who forgot time existed when something needed fixing.

Your hands settled at his stomach, fingers loosely linked together. "You know," you murmured, "most people answer texts about working late and then actually work with other people present."

Tom glanced toward the empty bays, then back at the Camaro like it might rescue him from the conversation.

You lifted your head, narrowing your eyes at the side of his face. "Thomas."

He sighed, the guilty kind, and turned a little more in your arms. "Don't start with the full name."

"Then explain why my boyfriend is the only mechanic in this entire shop."

Tom rubbed at his forehead with the back of his wrist, accidentally adding another faint smear of oil near his temple. "Everyone else went home."

"I can see that.” You stated.

"It wasn't supposed to take this long." Tom pointed out.

"It never is with you." You shot back.

He gave you a look—half amused, half exhausted—before glancing down at your arms still wrapped around him. His own hand came down to cover yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "The Camaro's owner needs it ready by tomorrow morning. It's been giving us trouble all week, and I finally figured out what's wrong with it."

"So naturally," you said, dryly, "you decided to stay here alone and fight a vintage car in the middle of the night."

"It's not the middle of the night." Tom murmured.

"It's late enough for me to bring you dinner like a worried husband."

His smile softened at that, eyes warm despite the tiredness beneath them. "You brought the food?"

"I did," you said, leaning around him to look at his face properly. "Because I know you. And I know your idea of dinner when you're working late is coffee, vending machine chips, and lying to my face."

Tom opened his mouth, then closed it.

You hummed. "Exactly."

He chuckled under his breath, turning fully now, carefully keeping his dirty hands away from your clothes even though you were already hugging him. "You didn't have to come all the way down here.”

"I wanted to." Your eyes swept over him again—the oil on his skin, the tired line of his shoulders, the stubborn focus still pulling at him even while he looked at you. "But I'm serious. Why are you here by yourself?"

Tom leaned back against the Camaro, folding his arms loosely, though his gaze flickered toward the engine like it was calling his name. "Because I'm close to finishing. Because if I leave it until morning, it'll put everyone behind. And because..." He hesitated.

You raised an eyebrow.

He exhaled. "Because the house took a lot, yeah? We're still moving in. Still buying things. Still getting settled. Extra hours help."

Your expression softened, but only a little. "Tom."

"I know," he said quickly, already anticipating the lecture. "I know. I'm not trying to run myself into the ground."

"You are literally standing here alone, covered in oil, talking about extra hours."

"But I have dinner now," he said, trying to brighten the argument with a charming smile.

You stared at him.

His smile weakened. "That didn't help?"

"Not even a little."

Tom's shoulders dropped with a small laugh, and he reached for you again, clean fingers carefully catching the edge of your hoodie sleeve. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I just want everything to be good for us."

"It is good," you said, voice gentler now. "We have the house. We have each other. Boxes everywhere, sure, but we have it. You don't have to kill yourself proving you deserve it."

That landed. You could see it in the way his eyes softened, in the way his jaw unclenched, in the way the mechanic in him finally stopped listening only to the car and started listening to you.

He looked down at you, warm and tired and so deeply yours. "I know," he said quietly. "I'm trying."

"Try harder by eating."

That pulled a real laugh out of him.

"Yes, boss."

You gave his waist one last squeeze before stepping back, pointing toward the workbench where the food waited. "Wash your hands. Sit down. Eat before I start unplugging things."

Tom's eyebrows lifted. "You wouldn't."

"I absolutely would."

He looked between you, the Camaro, and the food, then lifted both hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Dinner first."

"Good choice."

He smiled at you as he walked toward the sink in the corner of the garage, the overhead lights catching the oil on his forearms and the tired fondness in his eyes. The shop was still quiet, the Camaro still waiting, the night still long—but now Tom wasn't alone in it.

And that, at least, made all the difference.

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 two of you finished eating, you told yourself you were only going to hang around for a little while.

That had been the plan.

You had brought Tom dinner, made sure he sat down long enough to actually eat it instead of picking at fries while standing over an engine, and watched with quiet satisfaction as he leaned against the workbench and tore into the food like his body had suddenly remembered it was starving. He ate with grease still faintly embedded around his fingernails despite scrubbing his hands, his black T-shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders, his brown Timbs planted against the concrete floor. Every few bites, he'd close his eyes like the food was saving his life.

"You needed this," you said, sitting beside him on an overturned crate, your knee brushing his.

Tom gave you a look around a mouthful of food, then swallowed. "I was fine."

"You were one vending machine snack away from passing out dramatically under that Camaro."

He pointed a fry at you. "I would've passed out professionally."

You laughed, shaking your head as he grinned at you, tired but pleased. For a while, the shop felt less like a workplace and more like a strange little after-hours date spot. The overhead garage lights buzzed softly above you. The old Camaro sat in the bay with its hood propped open, waiting patiently like it knew Tom wasn't finished with it yet. Outside, the world had gone darker, the windows reflecting mostly the inside of the shop now—tools, tires, metal shelves, the warm pool of light around the two of you.

You had fully intended to leave after that.

You were going to kiss him, tell him not to stay too late, and head home to maybe unpack one box before collapsing into bed. The house still needed attention. There were clothes to fold, kitchen items to put away, and a living room that looked like a moving company had surrendered halfway through battle.

But then Tom stood up, stretched his back with a soft groan, and returned to the Camaro.

And you stayed.

At first, you told yourself it was just for a few minutes.

You lingered near the workbench, sipping from your drink, watching him fall back into his rhythm. Tom leaned over the engine, bracing one hand on the side of the car while the other reached down into the machinery. His brow furrowed in concentration, his curls falling forward over his forehead until he pushed them back with the inside of his wrist. Every movement was familiar to him. He knew where everything was without looking. He could reach for a wrench, a socket, a rag, a flashlight—all from memory.

You admired that about him.

The way his hands moved with purpose. The way he listened to a machine like it had a heartbeat. The way he paused, tilted his head slightly, and seemed to understand what most people would only hear as clanking metal and stubborn parts.

After a few minutes, he glanced over his shoulder at you. "You don't have to stay, love."

"I know." You replied.

"You've worked all day." Tom continued on.

"So have you." You shot back.

He gave you a look. "That wasn't an invitation to make it a competition."

"I'm not competing," you said, sliding off the crate and stepping closer. "I'm supervising."

Tom huffed a laugh. "Supervising?"

"Someone has to make sure you don't try to survive off vibes and engine fumes."

His smile tugged at one corner of his mouth before he turned back to the Camaro. "Fair enough."

So you stayed.

And somehow, "a little while" turned into much longer.

You didn't crowd him. You knew Tom well enough to understand when he needed space to think, and working on something this detailed required focus. You didn't hover over his shoulder every second or pepper him with questions when his face had that deep, locked-in expression. Instead, you made yourself useful in small ways.

When he asked for a wrench, you handed him the wrench.

When he asked for the socket set, you passed it over.

When he muttered, "Ten millimeter," without even looking up, you scanned the tray until you found it and placed it into his waiting palm.

His fingers brushed yours briefly each time, warm and slightly rough, and every so often he murmured a quiet, "Thank you, darling," like you were doing something far more important than handing him tools.

You liked the sound of it anyway.

You stood near the rolling tool cart, learning the layout as you went. The drawers were organized in a way that made sense to Tom and probably no one else. One drawer held wrenches lined from smallest to largest. Another held screwdrivers, pliers, and little labeled containers of bolts. There was a drawer full of sockets that looked nearly identical to you at first, but after Tom explained the differences, you started noticing the sizes and shapes.

"What does this one do?" you asked, holding up a tool that looked oddly specific.

Tom glanced at it, then smiled. "That's a spark plug socket."

"It has a whole socket just for spark plugs?" You asked him, curious.

"Spark plugs are special."

You arched a brow. "Are they?"

"They're small, important, and annoying when they don't cooperate." He paused, then glanced at you. "Like some people I know."

You narrowed your eyes. "Watch it."

His grin widened before he ducked back into the engine.

Even while helping, you made sure to let him have his space. When Tom needed to lean in closer, you stepped back. When he crouched near the front tire and reached for something underneath, you stayed beside the tool cart and waited until he asked for what he needed. When he got quiet, you let the silence sit comfortably between you.

The shop was peaceful in its own rough-edged way.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. Somewhere in the back, an old wall clock ticked with stubborn patience. The concrete floor held the cold of the night, but the garage itself was warm from the work lights and the lingering heat of the car. The air smelled like motor oil, old leather, metal, and the faint remains of dinner. Every so often, a car passed outside, headlights sweeping briefly across the open garage door before disappearing down the street.

Tom worked steadily, his black T-shirt clinging more with each passing hour. The oil smears on his arms had multiplied. A streak cut across the back of one hand. Another dark mark stained the side of his neck, and there was still that stubborn smear near his jaw that made him look both exhausted and unfairly attractive.

You tried not to stare too obviously.

You failed.

He caught you once when he straightened up, rolling his shoulder with a faint wince.

"What?" he asked, amused.

"Nothing."

"That was not a nothing look." He pointed out.

"It was a supportive look."

"That was a checking-me-out look."

"It can be both."

Tom laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he reached for a rag and wiped his hands. "You're distracting."

"I'm literally handing you tools."

"You're doing it distractingly."

You smiled, leaning your hip against the workbench. "Sounds like a personal problem."

He pointed at you with the rag. "It is. And you're the problem."

Still, even with the teasing, there was an intimacy in the way you fit into his workspace. You weren't trying to take over. You weren't pretending to know more than you did. You were just there—present, interested, helpful in the way you could be. And Tom noticed.

You could tell by the soft looks he gave you between tasks.

By the way his hand lingered when he reached for a tool.

By the way his voice softened whenever he explained something.

He showed you parts of the engine, pointing carefully with the end of a screwdriver. He explained what had been giving him trouble, how the old car had been restored beautifully but still had issues hidden beneath the surface. He talked about timing, fuel lines, worn parts, and stubborn bolts like he was telling you a story.

Some of it went over your head.

A lot of it, honestly.

But you listened anyway because it was him. Because his eyes brightened when he explained things. Because every time you asked a question, he answered without making you feel silly.

"So this is the part that's messing everything up?" you asked, leaning in just enough to see where he was pointing.

"Partly," Tom said. "It's connected to the bigger issue. The engine's not breathing right."

You blinked. "Engines breathe?"

"In a way, yeah." He smiled at your expression. "Air, fuel, spark. It all has to balance."

You hummed, looking down at the engine. "So it's dramatic."

"It's a sixty-four Camaro. Of course it's dramatic."

You glanced at him. "Like you."

Tom's mouth dropped open in offense. "I am not dramatic."

"You almost fell asleep in your food fifteen minutes ago and still insisted you were fine."

"That's not dramatic. That's dedication."

"That's denial."

He looked away, fighting a smile. "Pass me the ratchet, please."

You handed it over immediately. "Changing the subject."

"Efficiently," he said.

Time slipped by in small pieces.

A tool passed from your hand to his.

A question asked.

A bolt loosened.

A rag was tossed over his shoulder.

A soft joke was exchanged.

The Camaro is slowly coming back together beneath his hands.

At one point, you found yourself sitting on the edge of the workbench, legs swinging lightly, watching Tom crouched near the engine with a flashlight between his teeth. His eyes narrowed in concentration, and when he reached back without looking, you already knew what he wanted. You placed the next tool into his palm before he could ask.

He paused, glanced up at you, and took the flashlight from his mouth.

"Look at you," he said, voice warm. "Learning."

You shrugged, trying to play it casual even though the praise made your chest warm. "I pay attention."

"I know you do." His gaze softened. "That's one of my favorite things about you."

For a second, the shop went quiet in that tender way that made the world feel smaller. It was just the two of you, the old car, the smell of oil, and the hum of the lights above. You looked at him, at the exhaustion under his eyes and the fondness still shining through it, and you were reminded again why you had stayed.

Not because he needed you to fix the car.

Because he needed someone there who cared enough to make sure he didn't forget himself while fixing everything else.

"You're still not staying here all night," you said softly.

Tom's expression shifted, caught between affection and guilt. "I'm nearly done."

"You said that an hour ago."

"I'm closer now."

"You better be."

He chuckled, rising to his feet with a quiet groan. He stretched his back again, and you saw the way fatigue pulled at him. Before he could fully turn away, you reached for him, catching the hem of his black T-shirt and tugging him gently closer.

He came without resistance, stepping between your knees as you sat on the workbench. His hands landed carefully on either side of you, still mindful of the grease on his skin. You reached up and brushed a curl off his forehead, then smudged lightly at the oil near his jaw with your thumb.

"You're a mess," you murmured.

His eyes flicked over your face. "A handsome mess?"

"Unfortunately."

His grin was tired but bright. "I'll take it."

You rolled your eyes, but your hands stayed on him, one resting against his chest, the other near his shoulder. Beneath your palm, you could feel the steady beat of his heart and the solid warmth of him.

"You know," he said quietly, "I like having you here."

Your expression softened. "Yeah?”

"Yeah." He looked around the shop, then back at you. "Makes it feel less... lonely."

The admission was small, but it landed heavily.

You knew Tom was used to carrying things. Work. Bills. Goals. The future. The house. The quiet pressure of wanting to be enough for both of you. Even when he didn't say it out loud, you saw it in him.

So you leaned forward and kissed him softly, not caring that he smelled like oil and grease, not caring that his hands were dirty, not caring that the workbench was cold beneath you.

"I'm here," you said against his mouth. "But you're still finishing soon."

He laughed quietly, forehead touching yours. "Yes, boss.”

You smiled. "Good.”

Then you nudged him back toward the Camaro, hopping down from the workbench and returning to your post near the tool cart like you belonged there.

Tom went back to work, but now there was something lighter in the air. He still focused on the engine, still listened closely, still moved with that careful mechanic's precision—but he wasn't alone anymore. You were there beside him, passing tools, asking questions, teasing him when he got too stubborn, and letting him have enough room to do what he did best.

And every so often, when his hand reached back for the next tool, yours was already there.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐌 ended up drifting into one of those intimate moments neither of you planned for. The shop had settled into a strange kind of peace around you both.

Somewhere near the back, an old fan clicked softly as it rotated, pushing warm shop air in lazy circles. The wall clock ticked on, but neither of you were really paying attention to time anymore.

Tom had been crouched near the front of the Camaro, one hand braced against the frame while he checked something beneath the hood. He was tired, but the kind of tired that made him quieter instead of weaker.

He reached blindly toward the rolling tool cart, expecting you to place the next tool in his hand like you had been doing for the past hour.

But this time, nothing came.

Tom glanced over his shoulder, about to ask for it, and then he stopped.

You were sitting a few feet away in one of the rolling shop chairs, one knee drawn up slightly, your foot hooked against the chair's base so you wouldn't drift across the concrete. A thick repair manual was open in your lap, its pages bent and smudged from use. You had a flashlight angled over one shoulder, shining down across the tiny print as your eyes moved line by line. Beside you, a shallow metal tray held sockets, bolts, and small tools you had been sorting through with the intense focus of someone who had fully committed to the task.

And you had oil on you.

Not a lot, but enough for Tom to notice immediately. A dark thumbprint near your wrist. A faint streak along the side of your hand. Another smudge near your forearm where you must have brushed against the edge of the engine without realizing it. There was even the smallest mark near your cheek, like you had absently touched your face while reading. You looked completely focused, brows lightly drawn together, lips slightly parted as you studied the instructions like they personally owed you an answer.

Tom just stared.

There was something about the sight that hit him harder than he expected.

You weren't just standing around waiting for him to finish. You weren't bored, annoyed, or counting down the minutes until he was done. You were there with him. Really there. In his world. In the place where he spent long hours covered in grease and chasing solutions most people would never care to understand. You had come after your own long day of work, brought him food because you knew he wouldn't take care of himself properly, and then stayed—not out of obligation, but because you wanted to.

You had given him space when he needed it. Asked questions when you were curious. Passed tools without crowding him. Let him explain things without making him feel like he was rambling. And now here you were, sitting in a rolling chair, reading a repair manual like the Camaro was a puzzle you were determined to help him solve.

It did something to him.

Something soft and heavy in his chest.

He loved seeing you like this.

He loved you being in his element like it was second nature. Loved that you could fit yourself into his chaos without making it feel crowded. Loved that you knew when to tease him and when to simply be quiet beside him. Loved that you had oil smeared on your skin and didn't even seem to care because you were too busy trying to understand what he was working on.

He loved that you went out of your way for him.

After working all day, after coming home to the half-unpacked dream house the two of you were still trying to turn into a proper home, you could have stayed there. You could have rested. You could have texted him to eat something and gone to bed. But you didn't.

You came to him.

You brought dinner. You stayed. You helped.

And more than anything, he loved that you were his.

Not in some shallow, possessive way. Not like a thing to keep or control. But in the way that made his heart settle. In the way that made the future feel real. You were his person. His safe place. His stubborn, caring, beautiful boyfriend who could fuss at him about food one minute and sit in a garage chair reading engine instructions the next.

The realization softened his entire face.

You must have felt him staring, because your eyes lifted from the manual.

You caught him looking at you.

"What?" you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly, though there was amusement tucked at the corners of your mouth. "Did I pick up the wrong thing?"

Tom didn't answer right away.

Instead, he placed the tool in his hand down on the edge of the workbench, gave the Camaro one last distracted glance, and then lowered himself onto another rolling chair. With one small push of his boot against the concrete, he rolled toward you.

The chair wheels whispered across the floor.

You watched him approach, confused but smiling now. "Tom?"

He rolled right in front of you, close enough that his knees brushed yours. The shop light caught the oil on his forearm, the curve of his jaw, the tired warmth in his brown eyes. He looked at you like the engine, the car, the late hour, and the entire world had temporarily stopped mattering.

"What?" you repeated, softer this time.

Tom reached for the manual in your hand.

You let him take it, though your brow lifted. "I was reading that."

"I know," he murmured.

He closed the manual gently and set it aside on the nearest workbench without looking away from you.

The gesture made your breath catch a little.

His hand came back to you, knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek, careful where the faint oil smudge marked your skin. His thumb passed over it gently, but it only smeared a little more, making him huff a quiet laugh.

"You've got oil on your face," he said.

"You've got oil everywhere."

"Yeah, but I work here."

"I'm helping."

His expression softened even more. "I know."

Something in the way he said it made your teasing fade.

The shop suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. The hum of the lights seemed quieter, the fan more distant, the night pressing gently against the windows. Tom leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull back if you wanted to, but you didn't. You stayed exactly where you were, watching his eyes drop briefly to your mouth before finding yours again.

Then he kissed you.

At first, it was gentle.

A soft press of his mouth to yours, warm and grateful, tasting faintly of the dinner you'd brought him and the coffee he absolutely had no business drinking earlier. His hand curved along the side of your face while the other settled near your knee, steadying himself as the rolling chair shifted beneath him. You kissed him back just as softly, your fingers curling lightly around the front of his black T-shirt.

But the tenderness didn't stay quiet for long.

Tom kissed you again, deeper this time, like the feeling had caught up with him all at once. Like every hour of exhaustion, every quiet moment of appreciation, every unspoken thank-you had found one place to go. Your hand slid from his shirt to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing through the messy curls at his nape. He made a low sound against your mouth, barely there but enough to make heat bloom through you.

The rolling chairs nudged together awkwardly, wheels shifting.

You laughed into the kiss.

Tom smiled against your lips, then pulled back only enough to look at you. His eyes were darker now, soft but intent. "This chair situation is ridiculous."

"You rolled over here," you reminded him.

"I had a very good reason."

"And what was that?"

His hands found your waist. "You."

Before you could answer, he tugged you toward him—not rough, but firm enough that your chair rolled forward with a little squeak. You caught his shoulders, laughing under your breath as he guided you up and over, pulling you carefully into his lap.

You settled over him, straddling him in the chair, your knees bracketing his hips while his hands anchored at your waist. The chair rocked slightly beneath the combined weight of you both, and Tom tightened his grip with a startled laugh.

"Careful," he murmured.

"You pulled me over here."

"And I'd do it again."

Your mouth curved. "You're supposed to be fixing a car."

"I am taking a very necessary break."

"Is that what this is?"

Tom tilted his head back to look at you, his smile softening into something much more intimate. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It is."

That made your chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the garage heat.

You leaned down and kissed him again.

This time, there was no pretending it was just a quick moment. His hands slid more securely around your waist, pulling you closer until your chest met his. Yours moved to his jaw, then into his hair, tugging lightly at the curls that were already a mess. He kissed you like he had been thinking about it for longer than he admitted—slow at first, then hungry, then slow again, like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to savor you or lose himself completely.

The chair gave another quiet squeak beneath you.

Neither of you cared.

Your fingers brushed over the side of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint slickness of sweat and oil, the chain resting against his collarbone. Tom's hand moved up your back, firm and grounding, while the other stayed at your hip. He kissed you until the shop, the car, the manual, the tools, and the clock all blurred into the background.

For once, Tom wasn't thinking about what still needed fixing.

He wasn't thinking about the Camaro.

He wasn't thinking about the extra hours, the house payments, the boxes waiting at home, or the long list of things he always carried in his head.

He was thinking about you.

The way you fit against him.

The way you smelled faintly like your day, his hoodie, dinner, and now the shop too.

The way you had oil on your skin because you'd stayed.

He broke the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing a little heavier now. His thumb traced a slow line at your waist, and his eyes opened, meeting yours with that open, unguarded look that always made him seem younger and older at the same time.

"You know I love you, right?" he murmured.

Your fingers softened in his hair. "Yeah."

"I mean it." His voice was rough, but steady. "I love you being here. I love that you came. I love that you care enough to fuss at me and feed me and sit here reading instructions you absolutely don't have to read."

You smiled, brushing your nose lightly against his. "Somebody has to make sure you don't marry the Camaro."

His laugh came out low and warm. "Too late. I'm already spoken for."

"By me?"

His hands tightened gently at your waist.

"By you," he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world.

Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deep and lingering, his thumb moving in absent circles against your side. You melted further into him, letting the night stretch around you, letting the old Camaro wait a little longer.

Because after all the work, all the saving, all the late nights and early mornings that had brought you both to this point, Tom deserved a break.

And right then, wrapped around each other in the middle of a quiet garage, oil-smudged and tired and completely tangled up in each other, neither of you cared if that break lasted longer than planned.

Then the shift happened so gradually neither of you could really point to the exact second it changed.

One moment, the two of you were kissing in that slow, lingering way that felt like relief after a long day—warm and grateful and full of everything unspoken. The next, the air between you had grown heavier, thicker, charged with something that made every touch feel sharper and every breath come out a little less steady.

Tom's hands, which had started at your waist like he was trying to keep himself controlled, slowly began to wander. One stayed firm at the small of your back, holding you close enough that every breath you took brushed against his chest. The other slid lower, dragging over the curve of your side before settling at your hip.

Then lower still.

His palm came to rest on your backside, warm and possessive even through the fabric, and the touch pulled a sharp inhale out of you. Not rough. Not sudden. Just deliberate enough to make your whole body react. His fingers flexed there once, like he was testing your response, and when he felt the way you tensed in his lap, his eyes lifted to yours.

There was a heat in his expression now that had nothing to do with the garage.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, then back up again, and the corner of his lips tipped into the faintest smile—one that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Tom," you breathed, though it didn't sound much like a warning.

"Yeah?" he murmured, voice low and rough, his thumb pressing lightly where his hand still held you.

The way he said it made your heart beat harder.

His hand guided you almost absentmindedly, just enough pressure to encourage movement, and your body answered before your brain could fully catch up. Your hips shifted against him, slow at first, a small, instinctive roll that made both of you pause for half a second.

Tom's breath caught.

The sound was quiet, but you heard it.

Felt it.

His head tipped back just slightly, lashes lowering, while his grip on you tightened. Not enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he wanted more. His other hand spread wider across your back, steadying you as the rolling chair gave a faint squeak beneath the two of you.

That tiny noise should have broken the mood.

Instead, it only made the moment feel more dangerous.

More real.

You kissed him again before he could say anything, and Tom met you instantly, like he'd been waiting for permission he was already halfway to taking. His mouth moved against yours with a kind of urgency that made your pulse stutter. The kiss deepened, your bodies drawing closer, his hand still firm on your backside as your hips moved again—this time less accidental, more intentional.

A quiet sound escaped him, half breath and half groan, swallowed immediately by your mouth.

The reaction sent a rush of heat through you.

You could feel the tension in him now—not just in the way his hands held you, but in the way his shoulders tightened beneath your palms, in the way his jaw flexed when the kiss broke for air, in the way his eyes looked darker every time they opened to find your face again.

His forehead brushed yours for a brief second, both of you breathing harder than before.

"You're trouble," he murmured, though the way he said it sounded more like admiration than complaint.

You almost laughed, but it came out softer than that, breathier. "Me?"

Tom's hand pressed at your hip again, urging the smallest motion from you, and when you followed it, his head fell back against the chair with a quiet exhale that made your stomach flip.

"Yes, you," he said, voice strained now in the prettiest way. "Sitting there looking like that. Helping me all night. Then climbing into my lap like this."

"You pulled me here," you reminded him, though your voice had lost most of its earlier confidence.

"I know," he said, eyes finding yours again. "Best decision I've made all night."

His words settled over you warmly, but it was his expression that held you. He looked tired and gorgeous and entirely undone by you.

And the fact that you were doing that to him only made you want to move closer.

So you did.

Your hands slid down from his shoulders to his chest, palms flattening there for balance as your hips rolled again, slower this time, more deliberate. Tom sucked in a breath through his teeth, the hand on your backside tightening instinctively while the one on your back traveled upward, fingers spreading along your spine as if he wanted to keep every inch of you close.

The garage suddenly felt too warm.

Or maybe that was just the two of you.

His mouth found your neck then—not frantic, not messy, but careful in a way that somehow made it worse. Better. His lips brushed just below your jaw, then lower, and every soft press sent another wave of heat through you. You tipped your head back slightly, your fingers tangling tighter in his curls, while his hand at your hip kept encouraging that same slow, maddening rhythm.

Neither of you said much after that.

You didn't need to.

The sounds between you said enough—the catch of Tom's breath, the faint squeak of the chair, the soft rustle of denim and cotton, the quiet little noises that slipped out whenever one of you touched the other just right. It all built into something thick and consuming, something that made the whole world shrink down to his lap, his hands, his mouth, the heat of him beneath you.

At one point, Tom leaned back just enough to look at you again, his hands still anchored on you, his expression somewhere between awe and restraint.

"We should stop," he said, though he made absolutely no move to let you go.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling, your forehead still almost touching his. "Do you want to?"

His laugh was breathless, almost disbelieving. "No."

"Then that's not very convincing."

A helpless smile tugged at his mouth before he kissed you again, harder this time, like whatever last thread of control he'd been holding had finally slipped loose. His hand on your backside pressed more firmly, guiding you once more, and the response it pulled from both of you made the air between your bodies feel electric.

The old Camaro waited nearby. The tools still lay scattered. The repair manual sat abandoned on the workbench where Tom had tossed it. The clock kept ticking.

But for those moments, neither of you cared.

Because the night had already gone off-script, and now the two of you were suspended in it—oil-smudged, flushed, tangled together in the middle of the garage—letting the need you'd been dancing around finally take up all the space between you.

That was until reality seeped back —you broke the kiss first, though it took every ounce of willpower you possessed to do it.

Your lips parted from Tom’s slowly, reluctantly, lingering for one last soft brush before you finally pulled back. The space between your faces felt paper-thin and crackling with electricity, your mingled breaths warm and unsteady against each other’s skin. Both of you were flushed—cheeks heated, chests rising and falling faster than before—and far more aroused than either of you had planned when the evening began in a simple garage. Your fingers were still buried deep in his dark curls, the soft strands wrapped loosely around your knuckles, while Tom’s hands remained planted possessively on your body: one splayed wide at the curve of your waist, the other resting low on your backside, fingers flexed like he was fighting the urge to pull you right back in.

You could feel the evidence of how quickly things had escalated.

The heavy, insistent heat low in your belly.The throbbing ache of pure want between your thighs.The way every point of contact—his lap beneath you, his chest against yours, his hands on your body—suddenly felt electric, dangerous, and far too tempting to ignore.

You swallowed, trying to steady your breathing, and leaned back just enough to really look at him.

Tom looked utterly wrecked in the most devastatingly beautiful way.

His curls were a wild disaster, pushed in every direction by your eager fingers, a few strands sticking damply to his forehead. His lips were kiss-swollen, a deeper pink than usual, slightly parted as he caught his breath. His chest heaved beneath the fitted black T-shirt, the fabric stretched tight across his shoulders and pectorals, clinging to the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. Oil still marked him everywhere: a glossy streak along one forearm, a smudge near the sharp line of his jaw, another faint streak at his temple where he must have wiped his face earlier. Somehow those marks only made him look better—like a perfectly imperfect blend of exhausted, hardworking mechanic and pure, walking temptation. His brown eyes had gone dark and molten, heavy-lidded, fixed on you with an intensity that twisted low in your stomach and made your thighs tighten around his hips.

“Love…” he murmured, voice low, rough, and deliciously gravelly. His forehead nearly touched yours again as one thumb traced slow, distracted circles along your side, like he physically couldn’t stop touching you. “Why’d you stop?”

You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “Because,” you whispered, “if I don’t stop now, I’m not going to want to stop at all.”

Tom’s mouth twitched—half amused, half beautifully tortured. “That’s sort of the problem, yeah.”

You shook your head, fighting a smile even as warmth continued to pool through your body. “No, the actual problem is that you still have a car to finish.”

His expression shifted into pure, quiet disbelief, eyebrows lifting.

“You’re bringing up the Camaro right now?” he asked, sounding personally betrayed by the words.

You arched an eyebrow, even though your body was still draped intimately over his lap, thighs bracketing his hips in a way that completely undermined any attempt at responsibility. “Yes. I am.”

Tom stared at you for a long second, breathing still ragged, hands still firmly holding you in place. “You kiss me like that, climb into my lap, grind against me until I can barely think straight, and now you want to be responsible?”

“I’m always responsible,” you said, trying to sound firm.

He gave you a long, skeptical look that made heat flare in your cheeks.

You softened, sliding one hand from his messy curls to cup his cheek, thumb gently brushing the faint oil smear there. “Tom,” you said quietly, tenderly, “finish the car first.”

His jaw flexed, and his eyes searched your face desperately, hunting for any crack in your resolve.

“You say that,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, “but you’re still sitting on me like you belong here.”

That pulled a real laugh from you—breathless and warm.

You leaned in and pressed one more soft, teasing kiss to his mouth, short but lingering just enough to be dangerous. “Because I like sitting on you,” you whispered against his lips.

Tom groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest as he tipped his head back against the chair, eyes closing like he was silently begging the garage ceiling for strength. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m trying to,” you said innocently.

“No,” he countered, lifting his head to pin you with that dark, heated stare again, “you’re being incredibly, unfairly attractive while pretending to be practical. Completely different thing.”

Your smile turned slow and knowing. For a moment the temptation tugged hard—the quiet garage, the late hour, the way Tom was looking at you like he wanted to devour you right there in the rolling chair. It would be so easy to give in, to roll your hips again and let the heat between you consume everything else.

But then your gaze flicked past his shoulder to the Camaro.

The open hood. The exposed engine. The scattered tools and parts still waiting for his skilled hands.

If you let this continue, that car was never getting finished tonight.

You ran your thumb tenderly over his cheekbone and smiled, softer now. “I’m serious. Finish up with the car before we get down and dirty in the shop.”

The moment the words left your mouth, Tom went very still.

Then one corner of his lips lifted in a slow, predatory smirk.

“In the shop?” he repeated, voice dropping into a dangerously low register that sent a fresh shiver down your spine.

You rolled your eyes, though you could feel fresh heat blooming across your face. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’ve already started,” he said, gaze dragging slowly over your lips, your throat, your body in his lap. His hands flexed meaningfully at your waist, as if he were already picturing every filthy version of that suggestion. “That’s a terrible, wonderful thing to put in my head while I’m supposed to be working.”

“You were the one kissing me like you forgot your own name,” you shot back.

“I nearly did.”

You bit your lip to hide your smile, but the satisfaction was impossible to hide. Tom carried so much—long hours, pressure, the weight of building a life for both of you—and seeing him like this, a little unraveled, a little desperate, a little lost in you, filled your chest with warm, smug affection.

Still, you held your ground.

You leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth gently. “Then use that motivation,” you whispered against his skin. “Finish the car.”

Tom let out another low groan—half laugh, half genuine suffering—before dropping his forehead to your shoulder. You felt the warm rush of his breath through the fabric of his hoodie you were wearing. “You are evil.”

“Disciplined,” you corrected sweetly.

“Cruel.”

“Helpful.”

He lifted his head, eyes full of affection, frustration, and raw want all tangled together. “You really expect me to focus after all that?”

“Yes,” you said simply, smoothing your fingers through his curls one last time with tender affection. “I do.”

Tom studied your face for another long beat, then exhaled heavily through his nose in defeat. “And if I finish quickly?”

Your smile turned slow and full of promise. “Then maybe your reward will still be waiting right here.”

His eyes darkened instantly, pupils blowing wide.

“Dangerous answer,” he muttered, voice rough.

“Then get to work, mechanic.”

For a moment neither of you moved, caught in the charged silence. Then Tom’s hands loosened on your waist with clear reluctance, allowing you to carefully slide off his lap. The rolling chair squeaked as your weight shifted, wheels rolling back a few inches while your feet met the cool concrete floor. The sudden absence of his warmth made you acutely aware of how worked up you still were, the imprint of his hands and the press of his body lingering on your skin.

Tom stayed seated for another second, elbows on his knees, scrubbing both hands down his face with a quiet, frustrated groan.

“You alright there?” you asked, folding your arms and giving him your most innocent look.

He laughed—low, breathless, and utterly fond—then looked up at you through those messy curls. “No. Not even a little.”

That made you grin.

He pushed to his feet with a deep exhale, adjusting the hem of his T-shirt and rolling his shoulders like he was physically rebooting into mechanic mode. His gaze bounced between you and the Camaro several times, the internal battle clear on his face.

Work.You.Work.You.

Finally, he pointed at you with mock sternness, though his eyes still burned. “You are not allowed to say anything else suggestive while I finish this.”

“I didn’t say anything suggestive.”

Tom just stared at you.

You shrugged, lips twitching. “Okay… maybe a little.”

“A little?” He shook his head, already walking back toward the open hood with a soft laugh. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“No,” you said, settling back into the rolling chair and picking up the repair manual again, “I’m trying to make sure the car gets fixed before I distract you even worse.”

Tom paused beside the Camaro and glanced back.

You were sitting there once more—manual open in your lap, faint oil smudges still visible on your skin, looking deceptively composed for someone who had just been grinding in his lap minutes earlier. Your eyes dropped to the page, but the small, knowing smile playing at the corner of your mouth made it obvious you were still very aware of the effect you had on him.

Tom blew out a long breath and turned back to the engine. “This is absolute torture.”

You flipped a page innocently. “That sounds dramatic.”

“It is dramatic.”

“It’s a ’64 Camaro,” you said, echoing his earlier words with a grin. “Of course it is.”

That finally pulled a genuine laugh from him.

He bent over the engine again, tools clinking as he got back to work, but the moment hadn’t vanished. It simply simmered.

It lingered in every brush of fingers when you passed him a socket.In every heated glance he stole over his shoulder.In the heavy, delicious tension that made the quiet garage feel alive with promise.

The night stretched on, the Camaro slowly coming back together beneath his skilled hands, while both of you held onto the warm, aching anticipation of what would happen the moment he was finished.

And the reward you had promised him.

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