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Fresh
Grease, Gold, and Good Hands
The hangar was quiet except for the slow ticking of cooling metal and the occasional clink of a wrench against the engine housing. Evening light spilled in through the high windows, turning the dust in the air to gold. Wells stood at the open cowling with his sleeves long gone, skin marked with oil and sweat, one broad hand braced against the frame as he looked over the machine with the kind of focus that made a man want to be useful.
Alton was no better.
Shirtless, smirking, and already half-greased from shoulder to waist, he leaned in beside Wells with a wrench in one hand and that look in his eyes that said he knew exactly how suggestive the whole scene had become. Two men in a hot hangar, all grit and muscle, working over something powerful between them until it was ready to roar.
“Careful,” Alton murmured, glancing down as Wells’ hand slid lower along the engine housing. “You keep handling it like that and I’m going to get distracted.”
Wells let out a low laugh. “You’re already distracted.”
“Can you blame me?” Alton asked. “You’re standing there shirtless, covered in sweat, talking about pressure, timing, and whether this beast is ready to fly.”
Wells turned just enough to look at him, slow and knowing. “Then stop staring and tighten your grip.”
Alton did. He stepped in closer, shoulder brushing Wells’s chest as they worked the tool into place together, both of them pulling with measured force until the stubborn piece finally gave. The sound it made was sharp, satisfying, and far too rewarding for either of them to pretend it meant nothing.
“There,” Wells said, voice rough with effort. “Knew you could handle it.”
Alton’s mouth curled. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”
For a moment neither of them moved. The plane stood ready beside them, all polished promise and humming potential, while the heat in the hangar seemed to settle somewhere lower and far less mechanical.
Wells wiped a streak of oil from his forearm and looked Alton over with open approval. “We make a good team.”
Alton leaned against the fuselage, still holding the wrench, still smiling like trouble. “Yeah,” he said. “And I’ve got a feeling this isn’t the only thing in this hangar that needs a little more work before the night’s over.”
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