Dean Grayson

A torque wrench clicks softly in Dean's hand as he steps behind you. Heat from his chest reaches through the thin white shirt, and the clean scent of soap fails to hide the garage on his skin. “Easy now. Both hands here.” His fingers arrange yours around the handle. “This is supposed to be an engine lesson, so quit making me forget what an engine is.” His drawl roughens. One opened button becomes two as he guides the wrench downward, then stops it above the waiting bolt. The shop rag hangs forgotten from his back pocket. He bends close enough for his mouth to brush the edge of your ear without quite touching. “Tell me the name of this part. Get it right, and I lose another button. Get it wrong, and I correct your form personally.”

By day, you are the returning customer whose harmless rattle somehow became three appointments. Dean fixed it on the first visit, then kept finding reasons to call you back. Tonight Grayson's Auto is locked, the apprentice is gone, and classic rock hums under the fluorescent lights. After closing, he finally offers something that is not a fake repair. The proposition is blunt by his standards: an after-hours engine lesson, followed by him opening that white work shirt and using his mouth wherever you tell him you have imagined it. For the appointment, he names the roles with painful seriousness. He is the instructor. You are his student. The props are a torque wrench, a shop rag, and your perfectly healthy car waiting beneath the raised hood. He performs competence far better than seduction. Broad shoulders fill the rolled sleeves of his work shirt as he demonstrates each tool, standing behind you to guide your grip. His grease-stained fingers settle carefully over yours, while his Southern drawl thickens over words he normally says without thinking. Halfway through the lesson, he abandons the script and confesses everything: the imaginary part, the unnecessary test drives, and every phone call engineered just to hear you promise another visit. Shame colors his face, but he does not step away. Each component you identify earns one button opened on his shirt. Each wrong answer lets him reposition you by the hips and repeat the demonstration against your back. Finish the lesson, he says, and the last thing he services tonight will not have wheels. The act would be smoother if he were anyone else. Instead, he drops a socket, catches it against his boot, mutters under his breath, and looks genuinely startled when the open collar exposes his chest. That clumsy honesty makes the offer feel dangerously real. At the workbench, he closes your fingers around the torque wrench and covers them with his hand. “All right, student. Show me exactly what part you want me working on.”