#homo

[mygirlfriendismadatme]

Omg these homos

[temiree]

Sometimes all we need is a little reminder. 🏳️‍🌈

Consider supporting me on Patreon! 🦦✨ To find where else I am: https://linktr.ee/temiree

[spiderbrat]

vroom vroom warnings: usage of fuck, injuries, mild suggestiveness r is a literal grease monkey use of y/n daniela wants that cookie real bad synopsis: You're a mechanic, she has a lotta cars, and also an eye for pretty things she wants to own. genre: umm i dunno A/N: gay as hell also im tryna get back to writing more often word count: 6.8k

The first thing Daniela noticed was the sound.

Not the music bleeding out of rehearsal rooms three floors up. Not the dull clatter of road cases getting rolled across concrete. Not the distant, familiar shouts of staff trying to coordinate something big and expensive and late.

This was different.

A sharp metallic crack, the whine of a drill, and then the low, smooth growl of an engine turning over somewhere in the back bay like it had been coaxed into obedience by force of will alone.

Daniela paused just inside the open garage doors, one hand still hooked in the strap of her bag, sunglasses perched on top of her head. The place smelled like hot metal, motor oil, rubber, and that strange clean-burn scent of machinery that had just been worked hard. It was louder than she expected, brighter too-sunlight slanting through the high windows in gold bars, catching dust and steam and the shine of polished chrome.

The company kept this garage half for necessity, half for insanity.

Stage lifts, rigging systems, custom transport platforms, touring trucks, backup generators, specialty trailers, hydraulic equipment-someone had to keep all of it alive. And because their world was also full of people with too much money and very little patience, the garage somehow also serviced personal cars. Luxury SUVs. Modified imports. Vintage nonsense someone bought on a whim because it was pretty. If it had wheels or an engine or a finicky electronic system that would absolutely fail right before something important, it ended up here.

And apparently, eventually, everything ended up with you.

Daniela had heard about you before she ever properly saw you.

Mostly in fragments.

Ask Y/n, she’ll know.

Y/n fixed it.

No, don’t send that to outside service, Y/n can do it faster.

Y/n said the truck’s fine.

Y/n said the truck is not fine and if anyone drives it anyway they deserve what happens next.

The funny part was, no one ever said your name like they were talking about a person. More like a force. A final answer. A problem solver with grease under her nails and zero tolerance for stupidity.

Daniela hadn’t paid much attention at first. She’d figured you were probably forty, grizzled, mean as hell, and built like a cinder block. Some intimidating garage tyrant with a wrench in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Then she’d actually seen you.

And unfortunately, that had made things worse.

You were under one of the show trucks when she first spotted you a week ago, boots sticking out from beneath the chassis, coveralls tied around your waist, black tank top stuck to your back with sweat. Someone had called your name from across the bay and you’d rolled out on one of those little mechanic creepers like it was a throne, one arm braced over your head, the other holding a ratchet.

Daniela had fully stopped walking.

You were absurd.

Hot in the most unfair, offensive way. Strong forearms streaked with grease. Broad shoulders. A neck damp with sweat. Rings on a few of your fingers that somehow didn’t make sense in a garage and yet looked exactly right. Your hair was shoved back messily, like you’d run your hand through it too many times to care anymore. There’d been a smudge of something dark along your jaw, and your expression-

Your expression had been the real problem.

Calm. Nonchalant. Slightly bored.

Like absolutely nothing in the world could rattle you.

Like engines obeyed you because they should.

Like if someone annoyed you, you’d just tilt your head, look at them once, and they’d start apologizing automatically.

Daniela had watched you talk to one of the transport guys, and even from a distance it had been ridiculous. He’d been flustered, gesturing too much, clearly trying to explain something. You’d just leaned back against a tool chest, listening with that heavy-lidded, unreadable face. Then you’d said something short-too quiet for Daniela to hear-and the guy had immediately nodded and hurried off to do exactly whatever you told him to.

That had been the moment.

Because obviously.

Obviously Daniela had taken one look at you and thought, well. There it is.

That is a person who definitely tells people what to do.

That is a person who wins every stare down.

That is a person who probably pins someone with one hand and says something devastatingly calm while they fall apart.

The energy was unmistakable. The vibe was outrageous. Every line of your body said control. Competence. Command.

It was, frankly, irritating.

Especially because Daniela was not the type to get thrown by hot people.

She was usually the one doing the throwing.

So she’d taken the mature route and avoided you for a week.

Which would’ve worked fine if her car hadn’t started making that noise.

She’d bought it three months ago: sleek, low to the ground, glossy black, expensive enough that several staff members had just stared when she first pulled up in it. Daniela liked beautiful things. She liked fast things. She liked things that listened when she put her hands on them. The car had seemed like an excellent decision right up until yesterday, when braking at a red light had produced a wrong-feeling shudder under her foot.

Not dramatic. Not a full failure. Just… wrong.

This morning it had done it again.

A faint jerk in the pedal. A weird catch. Enough that she noticed, and if Daniela noticed something off about a car, she was not going to ignore it.

Which was how she ended up in the garage, standing in the heat and noise with her keys in one hand and her sunglasses still perched uselessly in her hair, trying not to look like she’d come down here because she wanted an excuse to talk to the hottest mechanic she’d ever seen.

A pneumatic wrench screamed somewhere to her left.

A truck horn blared once.

Someone laughed near the parts shelves.

And then, from the far side of the bay, you straightened up from the open hood of a dark green haul truck.

Daniela forgot, briefly, how to be normal.

You had one hand braced on the hood frame and the other holding a rag, wiping grease from your fingers in slow, absent motions that did absolutely nothing to make you less filthy. Your shirt-faded charcoal, sleeves cut off-clung damply to your torso. There was sweat at your collarbone, a streak of black along one bicep, and those same heavy work boots planted apart like the concrete itself had agreed you belonged there.

Someone said something to you. You answered without looking away from the engine. The person nodded and left.

Of course.

Of course you were like that up close too.

Daniela started toward you before she could overthink it.

You glanced over when her boots sounded against the concrete, and that was somehow worse. Your gaze was steady but not intrusive. Calm. Direct. You took her in in one smooth sweep-face, outfit, keys in hand, expression-and then leaned back a little against the truck like you had all the time in the world.

“Need something?” you asked.

Your voice was lower than she expected.

Not rough exactly. Just even. Easy. The kind of voice that sounded like it never had to rise to be listened to.

Daniela slowed to a stop a few feet away.

Up close, the details got more dangerous. Smudged knuckles. A silver chain at your throat. Sweat at your temples. The lazy set of your mouth. The complete absence of fluster. It was deeply unfair, this whole thing.

She crossed her arms instead, partly because it looked cool and partly because it kept her from doing anything idiotic.

“My car’s braking weird,” she said.

You nodded once, like that told you half of what you needed already.

“Weird how?”

Daniela held up a hand, making a face. “Not a helpful weird. A bad weird.”

Your mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“Most car problems are bad weird.”

That got a small laugh out of her before she could stop it.

Right. Great. So you were funny too. Excellent.

“It jerks a little when I brake,” she said. “Not every time. But enough that I noticed. Feels off in the pedal.”

Now your attention sharpened.

Not dramatically. Just enough that Daniela could tell the switch had happened. Casual mechanic to focused mechanic. Your eyes flicked to the keys in her hand.

“What are you driving?”

She named the model.

One of your brows lifted just slightly, not impressed exactly, but registering it. “Fancy.”

Daniela smiled, slow and sharp. “Jealous?”

“No,” you said, wiping your hands again on the rag. “Fancy cars break too.”

Something about the way you said it-flat, unconcerned, entirely unimpressed by price tags or aesthetics-made her want to laugh again. Or maybe just stand here longer than necessary.

You pushed off the truck and walked toward her.

Daniela remained perfectly still.

This was because she was composed.

It had nothing to do with the fact that you moved like you knew exactly where your body was at all times and expected the world to make room for it.

You stopped in front of her, not too close, and held out your hand.

“For the keys.”

Oh.

Right.

She handed them over.

Your fingers brushed hers for half a second, callused and warm and a little rough with the residue of work. Daniela hated that she noticed. Hated more that she noticed without wanting to.

You looked down at the key fob, then back up at her. “You need it checked now?”

There it was again. That tone. Straightforward. Calm. Like if she said yes, it would happen. No fuss. No dramatics. Like things got done around you because you decided they would.

Daniela, who was very used to being the one people adjusted around, found it oddly compelling.

And also annoying.

And also hot.

Mostly hot.

“If you can,” she said.

You nodded once. “I can take a look.”

Daniela tried very hard not to seem too pleased by that.

“Okay,” she said, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near interested.

You glanced toward the open garage doors, toward the lot outside where her car was parked, then back at her.

“Show me which one’s yours.”

Daniela smiled, small and satisfied, and turned slightly toward the doors.

“Come on, then,” she said.

And you, easy as anything, followed.

****

Daniela heard her car before she saw it.

Not the dramatic kind of hear, not some cinematic roar announcing your return from a test drive like the universe was trying to hand her a problem directly. Just the smooth, low purr of her engine easing back into the bay, controlled and clean, followed by the soft chirp of brakes and the faint crunch of tires over dusty concrete as you guided it into place like you’d known the shape of it for years instead of less than an hour.

She looked up from where she’d been pretending to answer emails on her phone near the office doorway.

Pretending being the key word.

Because in reality she’d been very aware of time passing. Very aware of the garage noise rising and falling around her. Very aware that she’d sent her car away with you and that now, for reasons she did not care to unpack in any healthy or honest manner, every few minutes she found herself glancing toward the open bay and wondering when you’d come back.

Then there you were.

You killed the engine, stepped out, and shut the door with your hip. The sleeves of your shirt were still gone, your forearms still streaked in grease and dust, your hair somehow even messier than before, damp at the temples and shoved back without much success. There was sweat darkening the fabric between your shoulder blades and along your chest. A rag hung from one of your back pockets.

Daniela stared for a second too long because to be fair, the rag tugged on the pants a little and your ass was right there.

Then, before she could decide whether walking over immediately would look eager, you rounded the front of the car with a spray bottle and a rag in hand and-without the slightest ceremony-started wiping down her windshield.

Daniela blinked.

That wasn’t what she expected.

She’d expected maybe a gruff, it’s done. Maybe a list of repairs in that calm voice of yours. Maybe something annoyingly competent and brief that would force her to find some other excuse to linger.

She had not expected to find you leaning over the hood of her very expensive car, one hand braced on the glass, the other moving the rag in clean practiced arcs over the windshield while-

While eating an uncrustable.

For one surreal second her brain simply stopped.

Because your hands were visibly filthy. Not fresh-from-under-the-engine filthy anymore, but still dirty enough that obviously you weren’t going to touch food with them. Which meant you had solved that problem in a way that no normal person would have chosen and yet, somehow, on you, it looked so natural that Daniela couldn’t even call it ridiculous.

The sandwich was trapped gently between your lips.

Not fully in your mouth, just held there while you worked, and every few seconds you would tilt your head back slightly, let the edge of it drop just enough, catch a bite, and chew before nudging it back into place again-all without using your hands once.

Daniela stopped walking.

Just fully stopped, halfway across the concrete.

You looked up while dragging the rag across the top corner of the windshield and caught her staring.

And instead of being embarrassed, instead of rushing to explain, instead of looking even slightly self-conscious, you just held eye contact and took another bite.

A slow one.

Head tipped up just a little. Mouth opening just enough. Bite. Chew.

The uncrustable remained tucked in your lips through all of it.

Daniela felt heat crawl straight up the back of her neck.

This, she thought furiously, was obscene for no reason. This, she thought, was a new low even for her. How was an uncrustable hot to her?

You were wiping down her windshield while eating a sandwich hands-free like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. Sweat was sliding down the side of your throat. Your bicep flexed every time you wrung out the rag. There was a streak of black grease near your wrist and another faint smudge near your jaw, and a little smear on your cheek. And the expression in your eyes when you looked at her over the top of her car-steady, calm, unreadable-made it feel somehow worse.

Or better.

Unfortunately.

She got herself moving again and came to a stop beside the driver’s side front quarter panel, crossing her arms because she needed somewhere to put them.

You gave the windshield one last pass, then moved to the side window with the same unfussy focus.

Daniela watched you for a beat.

Then, because her mouth had to do something before her brain exploded, she said, “Lunch?”

You glanced at her and nodded once, the sandwich still held between your lips.

It should not have been as charming as it was.

It was infuriatingly charming.

She watched you finish the driver’s window, then lean back a little and take another bite. This time the corner of the sandwich shifted, and Daniela’s eyes snagged on the faint smear of purple-red jelly left behind at the edge of your mouth.

That was new information she absolutely did not need.

You chewed, swallowed, wiped the last bit of glass with a quick flick of your wrist, then finally pulled the poor crushed sandwich from your mouth with the cleanest part of the wrapper, took two proper bites in rapid succession, and finished it off like this was just a normal Tuesday.

Which it probably was for you.

You crumpled the wrapper one-handed, glanced around, tossed it neatly into a trash bin without looking, and then picked up the rag again to wipe once more at a spot Daniela couldn’t even see.

Of course.

Of course you were thorough too.

Daniela leaned a hip against the neighboring tool cabinet and tried to look like she was not at all distracted by your mouth.

“How bad was it?” she asked.

You made a small gesture with the rag, like one second.

Then you crouched beside the front wheel, checked something with a brief practiced touch, rose again, and finally stepped back from the car.

You gave the hood a light pat, then gestured vaguely toward the front end and said, “Yeah. There was a problem with the-” and then a flood of mechanical terminology followed, easy and matter-of-fact and completely understandable if Daniela had been listening with anything except the part of her brain currently occupied by your lips.

Because there was still jelly there.

Just barely.

A little dark gleam at the edge of your lower lip.

And you were sweaty in a way that should have looked rough and messy but instead just made you look warm and alive and dangerous in that lazy nonchalant way you always did, as though heat and labor only sharpened you into something more unfair.

Daniela realized with a flicker of horror that you were halfway through explaining her brakes and she had not retained a single word.

She caught, “…and here,” as you tapped somewhere near the wheel assembly. “It wasn’t gone yet, but it was heading there. You probably started feeling it because the pedal was compensating.”

Daniela stared.

Not at the wheel.

At your mouth.

You straightened, looked at her, and paused for half a second.

Probably because she had gone visibly unfocused.

Daniela recovered with the speed of a professional.

“I-” She lifted one manicured finger vaguely toward your face. “What is that?”

One of your brows lifted.

“That,” Daniela said smoothly, as if she had not just completely stopped hearing about her own car, “is a fantastic color on you. You should get a lip gloss in that shade.”

Silence.

Then your eyes narrowed just slightly, not suspicious exactly, but deeply unimpressed.

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your wrist, checked the smear there, and looked back at her.

“No,” you said.

Daniela blinked. “No?”

You held up the wrist with the jelly smear still on it like evidence in court. “This is my uncrustable. No making it fancy by being all popstar.”

Daniela laughed before she could stop herself.

It came out brighter than she intended, warmer too. The corner of your mouth twitched in response, which made the whole thing worse in a way that felt medically significant.

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head, pushing off the cabinet to wander a slow half-step closer to the car. “Actually, I’m serious. You should try a lip combo like that.”

Your face remained completely flat.

“It’s grape jelly.”

“And?”

“It’s lunch.”

“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”

You stared at her for one measured second, then another.

Daniela held your gaze, perfectly composed.

Inside, she was having an entirely separate experience.

Then you glanced toward the trash bin where the wrapper had landed and said, “Your choice of compliment being based on a sandwich is something.”

Daniela smiled, sharp and lazy. “Your choice of lunch being a disk is something.”

That finally got an actual reaction.

Not a full laugh. You did not seem like someone who gave those away casually. But there was definitely a real smile now, small and crooked and gone too fast.

“It’s efficient,” you said.

“It’s circular.”

“It is not circular.”

“It’s close enough.”

You looked offended in a way so mild it was almost theoretical. “It has corners.”

“Barely. Spiritually, it’s a disk.”

You shook your head once, like this conversation had already wandered too far from sanity to be worth correcting, and set the rag over your shoulder.

Daniela watched a bead of sweat trace down the side of your neck and disappear beneath your collar.

Terrible.

Just terrible.

“So,” she said, because she did in fact need to know whether her expensive car was about to kill her. “Can I drive it, or should I start emotionally preparing for betrayal?”

You nodded toward the front wheel. “You can drive it. I cleaned up the issue and tightened what needed tightening. But you were right to bring it in when you did.”

That got her attention back where it belonged.

Mostly.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning another week or two and it would’ve gotten louder, rougher, more obvious. You caught it early.” You shrugged one shoulder. “Good instincts.”

The compliment was simple. It still made her situation worse.

Daniela had gotten compliments from people who wanted things from her, from people who wanted to impress her, from people who wanted to be noticed by proximity alone. She got praise about her work, her looks, her performances, her instincts onstage, her ability to command a room.

But from you it sounded different.

Not indulgent. Not flattering for the sake of it.

Just true.

She found, absurdly, that this mattered.

“Well,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses where they rested on her head even though she didn’t need to. “I do have excellent instincts.”

Your gaze dipped over her face once, calm as ever.

“Clearly.”

Daniela ignored what that did to her pulse.

A forklift beeped somewhere behind you. Voices rose near the loading dock. One of the other mechanics called your name from across the bay and held up what looked like a metal bracket in question.

You glanced over. “Minute.”

The mechanic nodded and went back to whatever crisis had found him.

Daniela looked at you, then at the car, then back at you.

“You wiped the windows,” she said.

You looked mildly confused by the observation. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

You seemed to consider that.

“They were dirty.”

Daniela stared at you for a long moment.

“You fixed the brakes,” she said slowly. “And then just… detailed my field of vision?”

You gave a tiny shrug. “I was already there.”

Already there.

As though that explained anything.

As though a person being competent enough to casually add thoughtfulness on top of it was normal.

Daniela dragged her tongue slowly against the inside of her cheek.

“You are,” she said, “deeply strange.”

That earned her another flicker of a smile.

“I work here,” you said, like that was explanation enough for all eccentricities.

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Apparently.”

For a second the two of you just stood there in the noise and heat of the garage. Her car clicked as the engine cooled. Light from the high windows caught on the black paint and turned the dust in the air gold. Somewhere behind the parts shelving, someone started swearing at a printer. A radio crackled in and out with half a song. It smelled like motor oil and hot metal and clean glass and, faintly, fruit.

You hooked your thumbs into your back pockets and tipped your chin toward the keys, still sitting on the cowl near the windshield where you’d set them while cleaning.

“Want those back?”

Daniela looked at the keys.

Then at you.

Then back at the keys.

“No,” she said, because that was funny to her and also because she wanted to see what you’d do.

One of your brows went up.

She smiled innocently. “I think maybe I should hear the explanation again.”

“You already heard it.”

“I absolutely did not.”

That got a pause.

Then, with maddening accuracy, your eyes flicked over her face and settled. Reading her. Not in a way that felt invasive-just precise.

Daniela had the distinct sense that you knew exactly why she had not heard it.

Which was impossible.

And if it wasn’t impossible, it was unacceptable.

“And why,” you asked in that low even voice, “did you not hear it?”

Daniela held your gaze, refusing to be the first one to blink.

Then she said, with perfect seriousness, “I was distracted by the lip color situation.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then another.

Somewhere in the distance, something metallic clanged loudly enough to ring.

You exhaled through your nose.

Not quite a laugh. Not quite not one.

“Right,” you said.

Daniela smiled wider.

For the first time since she’d walked into the garage, you looked almost faintly thrown-not much, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for her. Enough to satisfy something mean and delighted in her chest.

You reached up, finally, and swiped your thumb properly across your lower lip. When you looked at it and saw the last trace of jelly, your mouth flattened.

Daniela watched that thumb very carefully.

Then your eyes lifted back to hers.

“Brake issue,” you said. “The front started wearing unevenly. Small enough to fix now. It probably was aAnnoying enough that you felt it in the pedal. Now it is safe to drive. Bring it back if it starts acting up again.”

Daniela nodded like she had followed every bit of it.

“See?” she said. “That was much better. Very educational.”

You stepped closer-not enough to crowd, just enough to reach past her for the keys where they sat on the glass.

Your arm brushed the air near her shoulder.

Close enough that she caught the clean salt-warm scent of sweat under oil and soap and something metallic.

You picked up the keys, then looked down at her hand.

Daniela, understanding immediately, held it out.

You dropped them into her palm.

Callused fingers brushed her skin again.

This time neither of you moved away right away.

A second. Maybe less.

Still enough.

Then you withdrew and hooked the rag back over your shoulder.

“You gonna be okay?” you asked.

The question should have been ordinary.

Instead it landed low and strange and intimate in a way she deeply resented.

Daniela curled her fingers around the keys.

“Yes,” she said, then added, “though I do think I’m owed compensation for having to witness whatever that lunch situation was.”

Your face remained unreadable. “You mean efficiency.”

“I mean a crime against sandwiches.”

“I fixed your car.”

“That doesn’t make you right.”

“It makes me busy.”

Daniela huffed a laugh and took a step backward toward the driver’s side door.

“You know,” she said, opening the door and then pausing with one hand on the frame, “I still think you should consider the lip gloss.”

You looked at her over the roof of the car, sweat-damp, grease-streaked, impossibly composed.

“No.”

“Tinted balm, then.”

“No.”

“Just a stain?”

“That was jelly.”

Daniela slid into the driver’s seat, sunglasses finally coming down over her eyes. “And yet,” she said, glancing up at you through the open door, “it worked beautifully.”

Your mouth twitched again.

There and gone.

“Drive safe,” you said.

Daniela started the engine. Smooth. Steady. No wrong shudder under her foot when she tested the brake.

Perfect.

She looked up at you one last time, standing there in the wash of afternoon light with your rag over one shoulder and sweat still glinting at your throat, and thought with a mix of irritation and satisfaction that this had gone very badly for her in exactly the way she’d expected.

Then she smiled, slow and bright and dangerous.

“Try not to miss me too much,” she said.

“I will” you retorted without missing a beat.

That was an awful thing to say to her while looking like that.

Daniela stared at you for half a second, then let out one startled laugh and pulled the door shut before you could see quite how much she liked that.

As she rolled out of the bay, she caught you in the mirror already turning back toward the rest of the garage, toward the next machine, the next problem, the next thing waiting obediently for your hands.

Like this had been nothing.

Like she had not just spent ten full minutes trying not to openly stare at your mouth while you explained brake wear with grape jelly on your lip.

She braked at the exit.

Smooth.

Perfect.

Daniela smiled to herself, tapped the steering wheel once, and drove off thinking, very clearly, that her car had not been the only thing with a problem.

She made it exactly one street over before she gave up pretending she was going to be normal about any of this.

The brakes were perfect.

Of course they were.

The pedal felt smooth under her foot, no catch, no shudder, no hint of that wrong little stutter from earlier. You had fixed it exactly the way everyone said you fixed everything-quietly, correctly, with no fuss and no attempt to make a production out of being competent.

Which meant, inconveniently, that Daniela had no practical reason to go back.

And yet.

She sat at the stop sign at the next corner with one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping once against the glossy leather, sunglasses back on now though they did absolutely nothing to help with the fact that her brain was still replaying the image of you in the sunlight with a smear of grape jelly at your mouth.

Ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

She should keep driving.

Instead, Daniela cut the wheel hard, made a clean U-turn in the middle of the empty side street, and headed straight back to the garage.

By the time she rolled through the open bay doors again, she had exactly half a plan and all of the confidence necessary to make that someone else’s problem.

The garage was still in motion around you. Same heat, same metallic noise, same hum of people doing expensive things to expensive equipment. Someone had moved a lighting crate near the back wall. The transport truck from earlier was gone from its spot. A red coupe sat up on one of the lifts now with its undercarriage exposed like an autopsy.

You were where she’d left you only in the way a storm could be said to still be in the same county.

Not still, exactly. Just still central.

You were leaning into the open side panel of some equipment trailer, one arm braced overhead, the muscles in your back shifting beneath that faded charcoal shirt as you reached in with a wrench. Sweat darkened the fabric between your shoulder blades. Your coveralls were tied around your hips again, hanging low, and Daniela had just enough self-awareness to know she should maybe not be noticing the way the knot sat there.

Too late.

One of the interns looked up as her car pulled back in and visibly hesitated, like he was trying to work out whether she’d forgotten something or just enjoyed making entrances.

Daniela parked near the doors, stepped out, and shut the door with deliberate calm.

The sound was enough to get your attention.

You looked over your shoulder first, then straightened all the way when you saw her. Not startled exactly. More like mildly curious. You set the wrench down on the edge of the open panel and wiped one dirty hand over a cleaner patch of rag tucked into your waistband.

Daniela started toward you.

Your gaze dropped briefly to the car, then came back to her face.

“Something wrong?” you asked.

The question was practical. Immediate. You were already halfway into problem-solving mode again, eyes flicking once toward the front wheel area like maybe you were about to go right back to work.

Daniela stopped a few feet away and hooked her sunglasses into the neckline of her top.

“No,” she said. “The car’s perfect.”

You nodded once, like yes, obviously.

Which, annoyingly, was hot too.

“Then why’re you back?”

Daniela tilted her head, studying you in the bright spill of afternoon light. Up close again, you looked even more worked-over than before-sweat at the temples, a faint streak of grease still along one forearm, hair shoved back messily by a hand that had probably not been clean when it did it. There was no jelly now, sadly. Just your mouth, which remained a problem in its own right.

She let the silence hang for one beat longer than necessary.

“uncrustables,” she said at last, “are an interesting choice.”

You blinked.

That was it. Just one slow blink. Then one brow lifted slightly.

“Okay,” you said.

Daniela crossed her arms, the corner of her mouth pulling up. “But you can do better.”

There was a pause.

“Me”

A mechanic pushing a tool cart went by behind you. Somewhere farther back a compressor hissed. The whole garage kept moving, but it felt oddly like the two of you had stepped slightly outside it.

You looked at her for a moment with that same unreadable, heavy-lidded calm that had been ruining her week.

Then: “You.. better how?”

Daniela smiled fully now, because there it was-the opening she needed.

“Dinner,” she said. “Come to dinner.”

You stared at her.

Daniela held your gaze. She was used to people reacting faster than this-flirting back immediately, smiling, posturing, rushing to meet her where she stood. But you never seemed to rush anything. You took things in. Turned them once in your hand. Decided on purpose.

It made waiting for your answer far more interesting than it had any right to be.

Finally, you asked, “You asking me out because I fixed your car or because I ate an uncrustable?”

Daniela laughed, startled enough by the line that it came out unguarded.

“That depends,” she said. “Do you want the honest answer or the one that protects my dignity?”

“The honest one.”

“You were already hot before the uncrustable.”

Something in your expression shifted.

Not much. Just a flicker. Amusement, maybe. Or satisfaction. Tiny enough that someone else would’ve missed it. Daniela, who had apparently become a scholar of your face in under two interactions, did not.

“But,” she continued, “the uncrustable situation was so deeply weird that it tipped the scales.”

You angled your head. “In my favor?”

“Massively.”

Your mouth twitched.

Daniela felt absurdly pleased with herself.

You pulled the rag free from your waistband and cleaned your hands a little more thoroughly this time, each finger one by one, though there was only so much a rag could do. “You always this decisive?”

“When I see something I like?”

“Mm.”

“Yes.”

You glanced past her toward the car, then back at her. “You know I’m at work.”

Daniela made a face. “I’m aware. I can, in fact, identify a garage.”

That earned her the smallest exhale through your nose.

“I mean,” you said, “I’m sweaty. Greasy. Covered in whatever that trailer decided to leak on me half an hour ago.”

Daniela’s eyes flicked down and back up with no shame whatsoever. “I had noticed.”

Your expression did that near-smile thing again.

She was starting to think you enjoyed making her work for every inch of visible amusement. Which, honestly, tracked with the rest of you.

“So?” Daniela asked.

You looked at her for another beat, rag dangling from one hand.

Then, simple as anything: “Okay.”

Daniela, who had absolutely not expected you to agree that easily, just stared at you.

You held her gaze, calm as ever.

“Okay?” she repeated.

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “You said come to dinner.”

“And you’re just saying yes?”

“Do you want me to make it difficult?”

Daniela laughed again, softer this time, because there was no winning against that kind of composure except maybe getting to stand near it more often.

“No,” she said. “I definitely do not.”

One of the other mechanics shouted your name from across the bay.

You turned your head enough to call back, “Minute,” without raising your voice, and somehow they still heard you clearly over everything else.

Of course they did.

When you looked back at Daniela, she was smiling in that slow, pleased way she got when something had gone exactly the way she wanted.

“Tonight?” she asked.

You nodded once. “What time?”

“Seven.”

“Where?”

She named a place downtown. You just accepted the information and tucked it away, written on a scrap piece of paper in your pocket

“Okay,” you said again.

Daniela tipped her head. “That easy?”

You leaned one shoulder against the trailer panel, wiping one last streak of grime from the heel of your hand. “You wanted something better than an uncrustable.”

“I do.”

“I’m giving you a chance.”

Daniela actually had to look away for a second, smiling despite herself.

“You’re very confident for someone who ate lunch like a feral little disk enthusiast.”

“Portable,” you said.

“Suspicious.”

“Efficient.”

“Still strange.”

You considered that with a face so serious it made her want to laugh all over again. “You’re the one who came back.”

Daniela looked at you.

“Are you always like this?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Calm enough to be annoying.”

Your mouth twitched. “Mostly.”

God.

She stepped closer without quite deciding to, stopping just inside the range that felt private without being obvious. The air around you was warmer than the rest of the garage, touched by sunlight and engine heat and your body heat besides. Up close, you smelled like clean soap buried under sweat and metal and work. It was deeply distracting.

“You know,” Daniela said, lowering her voice just a little, “I did make a whole U-turn for this.”

“Did you?”

She stared at you. “You saw me come back.”

“I saw the car.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re still here.”

The answer landed with enough precision that Daniela had to fight not to grin too visibly.

“I am,” she said.

You nodded, like that was simply another fact on the table.

Then you reached into your back pocket, fished out your phone, and held it toward her.

Daniela looked at it, then at you.

“Put your number in,” you said.

She took the phone, trying not to enjoy the tiny trust of that too much. The case was plain which was boring. She’d fix that soon. Your lock screen, when it lit under her hand, was a blurry photo of some engine part on a stand. Also of course. Soon enough though, it’d be her.

Daniela typed in her number, added her name, and then-because she was who she was-put a black heart beside it.

When she handed it back, your gaze flicked to the screen. The black heart registered. You didn’t comment.

Coward, she thought fondly.

“I’ll text you the address,” she said.

You slid the phone back into your pocket. “I know where it is.”

Daniela lifted one brow. “Do you.”

“You think I only know this garage?”

Something about that pleased her more than it should have.

“Good,” she said. “Then you can show up on time.”

“I’m usually early.”

Daniela laughed under her breath. “Of course you are.”

Someone shouted your name again, more insistently this time, followed by a muffled curse from the other side of the bay.

You glanced that way, then back at her.

“I should go stop whatever that is before it becomes expensive.”

Daniela took one slow step backward, reclaiming her own space with obvious reluctance. “Fine.”

You didn’t move yet.

She stepped forward before pecking your cheek, light enough for it to have feeling but far too little for anything to smudge on her.

For one small, strange second, the pause between you felt almost domestic in shape. Like you’d been doing this for longer than twenty minutes and one wildly successful repair. Like coming back for each other was already a habit waiting to happen.

Then you tilted your chin toward her car.

“Drive safe.”

There it was again.

That same quiet directive. Not dramatic. Not controlling. Just spoken like it belonged where it landed.

Daniela smiled, slower now.

“Yes, boss.”

That got an actual look from you. Tiny. Sharp. Interested enough to feel like she’d brushed a live wire.

It lasted maybe a second.

Then your face smoothed right back out.

“Seven,” you said.

“Seven,” she echoed.

She turned and walked back toward her car without hurrying, very aware of your eyes on her for at least the first few steps. When she opened the door, she glanced back over the roof.

You were still standing there, rag in hand, grease on your forearms, shirt damp with sweat, sunlight cutting a bright line over one side of your face.

Still watching.

Daniela smiled to herself and got in.

This time when she pulled away, she didn’t look back in the mirror until she was already at the doors.

You were moving again by then, headed back toward the chaos like the center of it had simply shifted to let you through.

Seven, she thought, easing the car out into the street.

Much, much better than an uncrustable.

a/n sorry for the long break while writing

[theghostoficarus]

I'm BACK IN THE FUCKING BUILDING AGAIN!?

[dandeli0nprince]

Finished my last week of college, so a little birdflash doodle as a treat

[dragonpride17]

[ID: several pixel art graphics of the homo pride flag. In order, they are a heart, a star, a hazard sign, animated sparkles, an animated music equalizer, an animated UFO, an animated star divider, a smiley face, a Rubik's cube, music notes, a TV, a Pikachu, a Pokéball, an Espeon, a rainbow, a worm on a string, a shooting star, an animated checkerboard divider, a stamp (reading "homo"), a cassette tape (labaled "homo"), a rectangular flag, a userbox (reading "This user is homo!"), an animated badge (reading "homo"), a happy kaomoji, a blinkie (reading "homo"), and a winking kaomoji. /end ID]

homo (link) graphics! f2u, credit not required but appreciated

[everyoneisgayandtrans]