Chapter Text
He should have seen it coming.
Ryland Grace remembers waking up Tuesday morning to an array of messages and missed calls from none other than Colt—his twin brother. Which wasn't all that surprising or weird, they often messaged and called each other whenever their schedules allowed for it—but what was weird was the way Jody’s name appeared on his screen as well.
Having the both of them try to reach him was enough to concern Grace—sitting straight up in bed so fast he felt his head spin, making him grit his teeth. Grace reaches blindly for his glasses on the bedside table, praying they were where he left them. Shoving his glasses onto his face rather roughly, he immediately unlocked his phone by swiping onto one of Colt’s messages—pressing the call button as he scrolled up the wall of messages.
The other end picked up almost immediately, clicking tellingly.
“Ry! About time you picked up—and I know, I know, it's a little earlier than when you usually get up—which, sorry. But! Great news, little bro!”
Grace furrows his brows, leaning back against the headrest of his bed. “I just woke up, Colt. Can you get to the point?” He groans, shoving a hand under his glasses to rub at his eyes tiredly.
“If you let me finish, then I would, but whatever. Anyway! Me and Jo’ are heading out for vacation,”
“It’s ‘Jo’ and I.’” Grace corrects tiredly, cutting through what was going to become a long explanation.
“As I was saying.. Jo’ and I are going on vacation! Super last minute, I know, but we thought it would be best to head out while we could. You know how directing has been for Jo’ lately—stressful as shit,”
He could almost imagine Colt waving a hand in the air.
“So, we're going to be leaving the country for about three weeks—give or take. And I know you're way too busy to take care of Jean Claude, so she’ll be staying with a dogsitter for a while—don't worry about that. I was thinking we’d leave my truck with you, since, you know… you're always biking, I’m sure you'd enjoy taking a break from that for a bit.”
Grace stares blankly at the wall in front of his bed, blinking slowly as he took in the information—Colt and Jody were taking a last-minute vacation, Jean Claude was taken care of, and Colt wanted him to take care of his truck—or well, he wanted to lend the truck to Ryland so he didn't have to bike everywhere.
“Earth to Ry? You there, bud?”
He inhales deeply, nodding before he realized Colt couldn't see him. “Yeah, yeah I’m here. So—what? You want me to borrow your truck while you're out of the country? I mean, that's nice and all but I really have no reason to do that. I’m perfectly fine biking everywhere.” Grace huffs, pulling the sheets a little higher on his chest.
Colt scoffs on the other side of the line.
“Thought you’d say that, so I took the liberty of putting the keys under your doormat!”
He promptly chokes on his spit, shoving his sheets off of himself in a rush—which only made him succeed in tangling himself in the sheets. Grace falls ungracefully to the floor with a loud thump, quickly pushing himself onto socked feet.
He swore he heard Colt snickering over the line.
Grace shoves his front door open, the door slamming into the wall with a sickening crack—he cringes at the sound, peeling the door away from the wall to check for damage—he didn't need that to come out of his security deposit. Once he was satisfied, he peeled his ‘Trespassers will be used for science’ doormat Jody had gotten him one Christmas off the floor.
He nearly sagged into the doorframe, a sigh of relief slipping from his lips at the sight of the car keys. “Are you insane? What if someone noticed the huge lump under my doormat!” Grace hisses into the phone, keeping his voice low so as to not disturb his neighbors, especially the old lady—Cordelia—who lived across from him and occasionally dropped off leftover pastries.
Grace snatches the keys off the floor.
And that's how Ryland Grace got here.
Hands pressed to his head as he stares at the thick, white smoke billowing out from the hood of Colt’s truck—the truck he was supposed to be borrowing, keeping an eye on, safekeeping.
Grace tugs at his hair, “oh shoot, oh shoot,” he mumbles helplessly as the car groaned.
Ryland Grace has a Ph.D. in molecular biology, he earned his teaching license and promptly began teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle school; he can easily conduct complex laboratory experiments and write articles upon articles, can easily handle teenagers dealing with fluctuating hormones, break fights apart if needed all the while being a (hopefully) supportive teacher.
What Grace cannot do, is work under the hood of a car. That was never his forte, that skill will always lie with Court—or even Colt.
A particular sharp tug of his hair is what drags him back to the present—and, yep, there's still smoke flowing out from under the hood. He fumbles for his phone in his pocket, hands shaking slightly with anxiety as he opens Google—just a quick search for an auto shop that's (hopefully) nearby.
He’ll worry about their prices when he's sure the car is in good hands.
His phone is pressed to his shoulder and his ear, flexing his jaw as he turns away from the smoking car—God, what was he going to tell Colt? Grace can't even take care of his truck! He’s lucky Jean Claude is being watched by someone else.
“Jack’s auto repair, this is Matías—how can I help you?”
Grace jumps at the voice that clicked on the other line, inhaling sharply—which then turns into coughing, pulling the phone away from his face so he didn't embarrass himself further. He can distantly hear the receptionist on the other end of the phone ask if he was alright—faint chuckling that was cut off with a cough.
God, this couldn't get any worse.
“Yeah,” he croaks, pressing the phone back to its original place between his shoulder and ear, “sorry. I uh—my truck just started smoking,” Grace turns back to the truck, cringing at the thick white smoke. “I'm not sure what happened—I was just on my way to work and, boom, white smoke.” Shoot, he needs to call the middle school so he can get someone to cover him for the day.
“Uh huh. You need someone to tow your truck to the shop then?”
“Yes! Yeah, please send someone over—can I also hitch a ride with them? I'm on, uh—” Grace glances around for the road name, sighing softly when he spots it.
“We’ll be sending someone out to you, hold on tight.”
Grace is promptly hung up on.
Grace pushes his body weight into the truck seat, the sound of a Top 40s station playing softly in the background—something he often played back at his apartment. The quiet between the two men isn't exactly awkward, but he’s never done good with sitting in silence—so instead, he focuses his attention on the way the tow truck driver taps his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing. Would it hurt to start a conversation?
“So,” he starts, clearing his throat. “How long have you been working at Jack’s?” He hoped it was a decent conversation starter, but with the way the man glanced at him from the corner of his eye, he's not too sure.
The man—he distantly remembers him introducing himself as Mark—smacks his gum rather loudly as he contemplates his question. “Few years now, coming on five.” He states, dragging his eyes away from Grace and back to the road.
Okay, that wasn't a bad start, Grace! He isn't quite sure where to go from there. So, he does what he does best—talk.
“Did you know,” Grace holds up a finger, “that chewing gum was originally dyed a pink color because in 1928, Walter Diemer, a Fleer employee at the time, thought gray was far too boring—but they only had the red dye on hand, so pink was their only choice! Pretty cool, right?” He waves his hands enthusiastically, a smile on his face as he turns to Mark.
He was rewarded with the raise of his brows. “You some sort of gum nerd, or something?” Mark glances at him briefly before he blew and popped a bubble—Grace couldn't quite tell if he was being rude or he was genuinely curious. Hopefully the latter.
“Oh, no, no—it’s just helpful to know random facts to keep kids entertained.” Grace smiles, the sight surely looking strained as he hugged his backpack to his chest. Mark hums absentmindedly in response, though there was a knowing look in his eye, and that was the end of that.
Grace stumbles out of the tow truck, hands grasping onto the door to save himself from falling face first into the asphalt. Mark whistles worryingly from his spot in the driver's seat, “you good there, Doc?” He asked, flashing his teeth in a smirk.
His brows furrow at the title—he had insisted Mark not call him that, but alas. Grace waves his hand, though there was a slight shake in it. “I’m fine—and what did I say about calling me that?” He grouses, which only made the man laugh.
“Whatever,” Mark blows another bubble, “go see the kid in bay three, he’ll help out with your truck.”
Grace gives a shaky thumbs up and promptly shuts the door—and for future reference, you should slam the door, not gently shut it, or you'll have to deal with embarrassingly opening it to try again.
He pushes his glasses up as he swings his backpack onto one shoulder, squinting at the numbered bays in front of him—look for bay three, bay three can help you with your—Colt’s truck. Easy peasy. He glances up, noticing the tow truck is still parked right next to him—Mark gives him an expectant look through the windshield, brow raised. He suddenly realizes he's waiting for him to walk around before he starts driving.
Grace cringes, quickly walking around the tow truck as Mark softly honks the horn—he opts to ignore the jab and starts jogging across the lot towards the auto shop.
The auto shop isn't anything fancy, your typical shop on the corner of the street; Grace doesn't specialize in architecture, that's a little more Rocky’s department—but the shop definitely looks… well-loved. There are half peeled stickers and shitty graffiti on the outer walls, paint left drying on the asphalt because nobody cared to use tape.
He peels his eyes away from the creative exterior of the auto shop, instead stepping into the nearest bay—bay two. The mechanic in bay two sways his hips to a Spanish song on the radio—Grace tilts his head to the side, it sounds like one of Rocky’s favorites to play while he cleans his and Adrian’s apartment. He quickly walks by as the mechanic hums along to the song.
Finally, he's in bay three—at least, from the looks of it. There's a car held up by a lift of some sort, he’s not quite sure what type of car—but it’s pretty, something he’s sure Colt would love. Gosh, he still needs to reach out to him to break the news.
The sound of someone dropping a tool into their toolbox is what brings him out of his spiral, blinking dumbly as he spots two legs sticking out from under the car. The mechanic from bay two turns up the music, effectively drowning out the sounds of chatter from the office inside.
Estemos juntos los dos
Que importa que diran
Tu padre y tu mama
Grace nudges his glasses up with the back of his wrist, hesitantly stepping in front of where the mechanic was working—watching his shadow fall over strong legs and the hood of the car. This is the guy he’s supposed to talk to, right? He swallows thickly, clutching the strap of his backpack. “Um,” his voice cracks, making him clear it loudly, cheeks flushing a bright red. Wow, great start, Grace.
Aqui solo importa nuesto amor
Te quiero
Amor prohibido murmuran por las calles
He drags his eyes to the figure lying underneath the car. Legs spread in a comfortable sprawl, the material of his jeans pulling as his muscles stretched. Wow. Get your head out of the gutter, Ryland Grace! He slaps his cheeks lightly.
Grace leans down ever so slightly, as if that would help the mechanic notice him. “Sorry, Mark said I could come to you—about my, uh, truck!” He cringes at the sound of his own voice, it sounds rough. He shuffles awkwardly in place, dress shoes tapping against the floors.
Porque somos de distintas sociedades
Amor prohibido nos dice todo el mundo
El dinero no importa en ti ni en mi
“No worries if you're busy! Because, obviously you're busy right now—I mean, you're literally under the car. Gosh, sorry, I’m rambling.” Grace waves his hands erratically, afraid he's being far too pushy with the mechanic who is obviously busy with another customer. His face flushes a deep red as he stumbles over his words—he can't quite stop making a fool out of himself today.
“But I really need my truck fixed, it’s—it isn't my truck, it's my brother's. Please take a look?” He clasps his hands together—he’s not sure how much more pleading he can take before the man relents.
The ‘please’ seemed to have been the magic word, and really he should have seen that one coming—he works with seventh graders for Lord's sake! The… thing the man laid on squeaked loudly as the mechanic pushed himself out from under the car, one hand pressed to the bumper.
Holy smokes.
It almost seemed to happen in slow motion.
Out came rolling a man he could only describe as coming directly from his dreams. Slicked back hair held by gel, though a few strands fell loose against his forehead—looking like he attempted to run his fingers through it before remembering he prettied it all up. A tight, white shirt pulled taunt against his chest, most likely a safety precaution due to bending over engines all day—soaked in sweat. Piercing, light blue eyes found his as the mechanic pushed himself up onto an elbow—he suddenly felt compelled to freeze in place and just stare.
Porque si es amor
Y cuando al fin
Estemos juntos los dos
His face burns. An awkward smile pulls at his face as he forces his eyes away from the beautiful man below him. “So, um—my truck. I was on the way to work, right? And out of nowhere, it just started smoking! Thick, white smoke coming out of the hood—it sounded like it was gearing up to blow up, honestly.” Grace cringes, he suddenly wishes he paid more attention to Colt teaching him the basics of cars and their mechanics.
Grace mimes an explosion with his hands, making them fly out into the air, “psssh! That's the sound it made before I pulled over—I was so worried.” He distantly remembers someone flipping him off for pulling onto the shoulder suddenly.
He watches as the mechanic blinks slowly. “—And that’s about what happened, I think?” Grace frowns, racking his brain for any other information he could provide to the mechanic who—should be working on his truck, if he’s to take Mark seriously.
He rubs a hand over his cheek absentmindedly, still warm to the touch from his earlier embarrassing endeavors. “I'm not—not a car guy, so I didn't bother touching it, I didn't want to make it worse.” He blows air out of his nose in frustration, the action making a few hairs over his forehead fly up.
Grace looks up at him expectantly, the mechanic seems to have an inch or two on him—which in itself is surprising, he's so used to being taller than everyone else in the room.
“I can take a look at it.”
Amor prohibido murmuran por las calles
Porque somos de distintas sociedades
Amor prohibido nos dice todo el mundo
Grace breathes a sigh of relief, shoulders slumping—a bright smile pulls at his cheeks. Finally, something is going well for him. “Let me just finish with this,” the man pats the hood of his car—Grace realizes that he hasn't moved from his position on the… rolling thing.
“Then we can roll her in. Say, maybe five minutes?” The man glances down at his watch for a brief moment, eyes quickly flicking back up to him—the action makes him feel… not insecure, but watched rather closely. “You can wait here,” the mechanic nods off to a rolling stool.
A hopeful feeling bubbles in his chest. “Great! Do you mind if I call someone? I need to let my brother know about all of,” Grace motions one hand towards the opening of the garage, “this.” His lips pull down slightly—he really doesn't want to interrupt Colt and Jody’s vacation.
The mechanic simply shrugs before sliding back under the car.
Grace blinks slowly, eyes dragging to where his phone sits in his front pocket, it almost feels like it's burning—probably the guilt. He jumps in place, shaking out his shoulders—he probably looks like an idiot. He gently places his bag onto the ground before slumping into the stool, yelping when it slides across the floor. He ignores the way the mechanic slows his work at the sound.
Grace fishes his phone out from his pocket, swiping away Chick-fil-A notifications reminding him to try their new sandwich—he instead opens Colt’s contact.
He presses call.
“Jo’, it’s Ry—what? No, I haven't seen your polka dot shirt. Did you check my bag? Maybe you put it in there by accident. I dunno why it would be there—just check.”
Grace furrows his brows, listening in on the conversation between the couple—there's only been a handful of times where Jody was genuinely upset, and he never, ever wishes to be in Colt’s place when that happens. “Sorry to interrupt, but uh, Colt?” He tries to nudge into the conversation unfolding on the other end of the phone.
“Sorry, sorry. What's up? Don't tell me you miss us already!”
He cringes. Colt deserves to know.
“No—well, yes, of course I miss you guys! But that's not why I’m calling.” He picks at his slacks, rolling on the stool slightly.
“You're worrying me, Ry. Did something happen? Y’know you can tell me anything, bud.”
Grace tilts his head side to side, blowing air through his teeth. “So, there's really no good way to put this, but I was on the way to work and—I used your truck, y’know like you wanted me to, and it just,” he motions with his free hand, as if Colt could see it.
“Just started smoking out of nowhere! I’m at an auto shop right now—the mechanic is going to work on it in a minute to see what happened.” He blurts out, eyes wide as he digs the heels of his dress shoes into the concrete floor—the mechanic stills his work under the car for a moment.
“Gosh—I’m so sorry, Colt. I didn't mean to wreck your truck the few times I use it.” Grace feels like he's sitting ramrod straight, his shoulders are starting to clench uncomfortably.
“Oh, Ryland—man, you had me worried something bad happened! I mean, yeah it sucks the coolant’s burning but I’d rather that than have you hurt or something crazy.” Colt scoffs.
Grace melts into the stool, shoulders slumping with relief as he shoves a hand under his glasses to rub over his eyes.
“Promise I’m not mad about the truck! I know how worried you get about this shit—so really, no biggie. Did you call off from work? I better not hear about you walking the entire way there.”
He smiles tiredly—the mechanic begins to work on his car once more. “Okay—okay, if you say so. And yes, I called out of work; I've got someone covering for me today. I was really excited for today,” Grace begins to pick at his slacks once more. “Alex had told me yesterday that he was finally starting to understand the difference between plant and animal cells—I feel like I’m really getting through to him. I even made extra material for him and a few others! I was going to hang it out after class.” He definitely did not pout.
Colt laughs on the other end of the phone, there's some ruffling of clothes and the sound of Jody exclaiming that she found her shirt.
“I'm sure you were, Ry. Don't worry about it too much, you always have tomorrow. I’m sure they can wait a day to get more homework.”
He grunts, “not homework,” Colt seems to wave him off—he doesn't need to see him to know.
“Anyway, I really gotta go—me and Jo’ have a date planned. You know how it is.”
Grace’s face falls slightly, watching as the mechanic pushes himself out from under the car once more—silently pushing himself onto his feet, wiping grease off on his jeans. He blinks. “Oh, right. Okay. Tell Jody I said hi, okay? You two be safe—love you guys.” His face immediately brightens at the chorus of ‘goodbye's’ and ‘I love you's’ that spill from his phone.
“Bye Ry! We love you!”
The line goes dead.
He feels a bit lighter after talking to Colt—and by extension, Jody. Grace sighs.
“Hey,” the mechanic he has yet to learn the name of steps in front of him, calm eyes searching his face as he rubs a hand into a rag—he seems to have thought better of using his jeans.
“Hey yourself,” Grace smiles nervously. Gosh, the man tilts his head to the side.
“I’m going to move my car then I’ll get started on yours.” The mechanic jabs a thumb back at the car, making Grace light up.
“Oh! That's your car?” He leans to the side to get a better look at the car, suddenly excited. “I was thinking about how pretty it was earlier! Wow, you’ve taken really great care of it—not that I know exactly what qualifies as ‘good care.’” Grace purses his lips, looking back at the mechanic. That seemed to make him happy—Grace thinks he spots a smile tugging at the man’s lips.
“Yeah. Thanks.” The mechanic nods, looking oddly at peace. “Can I have your keys?” He asks, holding an expectant hand out.
“Oh, shoot! Yeah, um—here,” Grace fumbles for an embarrassingly long time, wrangling his keys out from his pocket at last and handing it over to the man. He’s sure he looks flustered, but he has a feeling the mechanic is used to seeing him like.. this.
“I’ll be back. Sit tight,” the mechanic doesn't seem to mind that he's a mess—moving to slip away from the conversation to get the job done, before looking over his shoulder at him. “Unless you want to leave, but you can stay.” He slips into his own car and pulls out of the garage before Grace can say anything in return.
“You’ve got a blown head casket, most likely from the burnt coolant.” The mechanic leans over the open hood of the truck, cocking a hip as he—digs? Digs through the engine, his hands already covered in grease and oil. Grace has no idea how mechanics do it.
“That sounds really bad—is that bad?” Grace cringes, sitting up straight on the stool he was offered earlier.
The mechanic hums in consideration, head tilting to the side slightly “yup.” He replies simply, glancing over at Grace. “Might take a while to get fixed—don't expect it to be done today.”
Grace frowns slightly. He had been hoping it wouldn't take long to fix—just a quick stop at the auto shop then he could go back home, but it seems the universe had other plans for him. He breathes in sharply, “okay. Okay. How long do you think it’ll take? The day, maybe? I just—I just want to know if I can bring it to work tomorrow.” He asks, words tumbling out of his mouth as he fiddles with his blazer he has draped over his legs.
The mechanic blinks at him, his face twitching ever so slightly as if he was thinking over something important. Grace smiles awkwardly under his gaze, an embarrassed flush rising to his cheeks. “Two to three days,” the man finally offered, his head tilting to one side slightly. “I can drive you.” He offers—well, it comes off more like a statement. “To work, since you won't have your truck. We don't offer rentals.” He clarifies, eyes darting away from his face and instead to the rag he snags out of his back pocket.
“Oh—oh, goodness, no, I can't ask that of you!” Grace waves his hands erratically. “You're already fixing up the truck, this is a huge favor!” His cheeks burn, and sweat is starting to roll down his back.
The mechanic shakes his head. “I want to,” and Grace suddenly feels stunned—he wants to take time out of his day so Grace could get to work? “If it makes you feel better, you can take me out for lunch—call it even.” Grace not-so-subtly clutches at his slacks, eyes wide as the mechanic brought his attention back to him. He slowly realizes he's waiting for an answer.
He smiles, a small, wobbly thing. “Okay! Yeah, yeah. Lunch works, I think. We can get whatever you want, and it'll be on me!” Grace nods, though the action is done to convince himself more than the mechanic.
The mechanic returns the smile, something small and almost not noticeable, it mostly shows in his eyes—then turns back to the open hood of Colt’s truck.
Grace sits dumbfounded for some time before he does what he does best—talk.
“Sorry, I just realized I never actually introduced myself—I’m Grace, uh, well Ryland Grace.” He starts, knocking his knees together clumsily.
“I know,” the mechanic hums.
He blinks. “You know?”
“Matías told me—the receptionist.”
Ah. Yeah, that makes sense. He is a client after all. “I see, I should've expected that!” Grace laughs awkwardly. Change the topic, Grace.
“So, what's it like being a mechanic? Do you enjoy it? I don't think I could ever do something like this—not that it isn't a respectable field!” He waves his hands, he swears he sees the mechanic looking at him from the corners of his eyes. “But, like, I’ve always excelled in science and teaching—something I can do where I can share knowledge.” Grace spins around in his stool, a low humming sound comes from the man.
“I don't know—I have a friend who likes to get his hands on everything, see how it functions and how it does its job.” He kicks a foot out, letting it anchor him to the floor so he doesn't go flying. Music still plays softly in the background, but it seems like someone else got their hands on it—now playing 80s rock from the other end of the garage.
He opens his mouth to speak once more, but the mechanic beats him to it, “I enjoy it. Don't think I’d be here if I didn't.” He seems to be draining something from the truck, his face pinched in concentration.
Grace hums in understanding. “I’m glad you found your calling. It’s not exactly easy.” He swears he sees a small smile on his face before the man turns away.
Grace looks up from the homework he had been grading, blue pen in hand (because he thinks the red looks too mean) and his glasses resting on the tip of his nose. It's been—three hours? Maybe? Since the mechanic had started work on the truck, he seems content fixing it.
He glances down at his watch, sniffling. Grace jumps from his seat, bringing the watch closer to his face to make sure he was seeing the correct time—1:23, it's already well into lunch. He would really hate to get the guy out of the zone, but.. you work better on a full stomach.
Grace clears his throat, hoping it won't crack like it had earlier. “Hey,” he tries, the clicking from tools stops almost immediately. “I know you're probably super focused right now, but I was thinking maybe I could take you up on that lunch? You know, the brain mostly relies on glucose, and not to assume or anything—but you kind of seem like the type of guy to skip breakfast—so your blood sugar dips after fasting all night, which can lead to a difficulty in concentrating.” He rambles, watching as the mechanic turns his body to face him—something akin to fascination on his face.
“Gosh, sorry—yeah, that probably came off rude. I promise I didn't mean for it to sound that way, I’m just trying to say you’d work better if you had something to eat!” Grace smiles, the action is wobbly on his face as his face burns red. “Not that you're a bad mechanic! You're doing a great job!” He yelps, waving his hands in the air—he’s digging himself a hole.
“I’m just making it worse, aren't I?” He dang near whines, scrubbing a hand over his face—the one with the blue pen—most likely leaving marks over his skin.
There's a snort from nearby, and Grace’s eyes snap open—he hadn't realized he closed them.
“Sure, lunch sounds good.” He smiles, it's small but it's charming.
Grace’s brows raise in surprise, his own smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Okay! Okay, let me just,” he starts to (gently) shove the homework he had been grading into his bag—he tries not to make it seem like he was enthusiastic.
Grace, surprisingly, finishes in record time! Not that he was timing himself. Things put away, bag slung over his shoulder as he clutches his blazer to his chest. The mechanic is leaning against the truck waiting patiently for him, it seems—a toothpick (when did he get that?) sits between plush lips.
“You ready?” The man asks, there's still a soft smile on his face—and wow, he should really smile more. Wait, does that sound creepy? That totally sounds creepy. Nice going, Grace.
He jumps at the realization, making the other man raise a brow. “Yup! Totally ready. Let's hit the road and get some grub.” Grace cringes at his word choice. Never let him speak when he's nervous—which is, honestly, always.
The mechanic leads the way, his hands are shoved in his pockets as Grace quickly catches up to him—though it seems like the man slowed down so they could walk side by side instead of having Grace follow like a lost duckling. “Did you clock out already? Oh dear, you should have told me I was taking too long!” He pouts. If Rocky was here, he would have told him to move his behind—he hates being late to events!
“It's fine, I don't mind waiting.” He replies simply, putting his key into the passenger side door of the beautiful car from earlier—letting it swing open with a steady hand. “After you,” the mechanic looks at Grace expectantly.
Is it bad that he feels his face heat up at the sheer politeness of the man?
“Thank you,” he breathes in sharply through his teeth, the action making a whistling noise. Grace ungracefully settles into the passenger seat. sliding his bag between his legs—the man waits patiently for him to settle before closing the door.
“So,” the man settles into the driver’s seat, easily turning the car on, “where to?” He asks, hands slipping into leather gloves before they grip the steering wheel.
Grace has to drag his eyes away from the sight. “I thought I said you'd get to pick?” He huffs, and it draws another amused look from the other man—not exactly a smile, but it pulls at his eyes like he is.
The drive to the diner is filled with chatter (mostly from himself, he grouses,) but he finds that it's relaxing and exactly what he needed—and the other man seems to be enjoying himself, even if it looks like his attention is focused solely on the road.
“Ridiculous, right?” Grace huffs, for what seems like the dozenth time—the man hums, telling him to keep going.
“I had told her that it was incredibly unprofessional for her to be flirting with her son's teacher, but no matter what I said, she’d just ignore me! She’s always chaperoning for field trips—and don't get me wrong, I love the extra help! But it's exhausting having to tell a full grown adult that it's, one, not right, and two, I’m uninterested!” He motions with his hands at nothing in particular, his hair is flying in every direction as they speed down a road—he feels oddly safe with the man driving.
Grace turns to look at the man for some sort of reaction, finding that he has a content look on his face—it almost seems haunting. It’s beautiful, with the way his short hair tries to move with the wind.
He’s only just met him, it's foolish to be thinking this way—but then the man turns to look at him for a moment, tearing his eyes away from the pavement, giving him a minuscule smile and his attention.
Grace gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Unprofessional, but I can see why she would go to those lengths.” He finally replies.
“Oh,” Grace breathes. “Right,” he hugs his blazer closer to his chest. What a day. His reaction seems to satisfy some sort of curiosity the man had, for he hums with content.
He doesn't realize they parked—startling when the mechanic opens his door for him, patiently waiting for him to return to the land of the living.
“We’re here, come.” He offers Grace a hand, his leather gloves still on—Grace yearns to know what they feel like against his skin. He easily accepts it, relishing in the way the material rubs against his own hand before he pulls away, grabbing his bag with his things. He's warm all over, but it's from the heat, it has to be.
The man opens the door to the diner, letting him enter first. He thanks him, a polite smile on his face that itches to become something more.
It takes no time to get seated, being directed to a booth by a waitress—Patricia, she's always been kind to him when he popped by.
“So,” he starts the moment Patricia walks away, shoving his bag to the corner of his end of the booth, making sure it won't fall. He can't have another batch of homework ruined because he was clumsy. “So far I know you enjoy mechanic work—y’know what they say, find a career you love and you never work a day in your life, but what else do you like to do?” Grace doesn't even bother looking at the menu—he already knew what he wanted. The man seems to have the same issue—his soft eyes are instead locked onto Grace, almost intensely.
His brows pinch. “Sorry, that's a personal question. Feel free to ignore that.” He watches as the man blinks, his head tilting slightly.
“I drive.” He offers.
Grace can't help the smile that pulls at his cheeks, though it dampens slightly in confusion. “Like, just around the city, or for movies?” He asks, and he can't help the spike of excitement that courses through his body at the thought of this man driving for movies—like Colt!
The man shrugs, “sure. I used to drive for movies, but I.. moved, lost most of my connections.”
He feels like he's practically vibrating in his seat, and it must show because the mechanic raises a brow in question. “My brother is a stunt double as well! Holy moly—that's so cool!” Grace nearly reaches over to grab the man by the shoulders and to shake, but he does the socially acceptable thing and sits as still as possible. “Maybe I could pass your information along to him—if you're still interested in that industry, anyway. I could see if he could get you a job as a stunt double for car scenes!” He smiles brightly.
“Why?” The mechanic asks, his brows pinched. He seems conflicted.
“Why what?” Grace frowns.
“Why do you care? You only just met me.” He elaborates, jaw clenching. Grace finds that he hates the look of confusion and hurt on his face.
“Why?” Grace repeats, dumbfounded. “That's silly, I’d care even if we were just strangers—which, I know, technically we still are, but I think everyone deserves a chance at doing what they love. I mean, you like driving, right? Why not offer to get you a job doing something you like?” He asks, motioning a hand at nothing in particular. “If you don't want me to pass your name along, then that's cool too, you don't have to worry about it—or hey, I can give you my brother’s information and you can decide if or when you reach out.” He offers instead, shoving a hand under his chin to lean against it, elbow digging uncomfortably into the table.
“That isn't to say you don't enjoy being a mechanic, I’m sure you do—but having choices makes you feel more in control, no?” Grace tries to give the man a reassuring smile. He's not sure if it's the speech he gave or the smile that makes him melt slightly into the cushions of his seat.
“Okay.” The man blinks down at him—he's still slightly taller even when he's relaxing, “I’ll think about it. Give me his number later?” He asks.
Grace feels like he can jump out of his seat and start dancing—music be damned.
“Give me your number too.” The man adds, though it sounds more like a demand than anything—there's an intense look in his eyes. Grace finds he quite like how it looks on him.
“Oh!” He breathes out, cheeks flushing. “Of course, here.” Grace just about shoves his phone into the other man’s face with how ecstatic he is—he doesn't miss the look of satisfaction on the man’s face.
“Driver?” Grace asks, looking down at the contact listed as ‘Driver from Auto Shop.’
The man—Driver nods, “call me Driver.” It's simple, but not exactly something he expected—but he thinks it fits him well.
“That's..” Grace tilts his head, “cute. It's fitting, you like driving and you work on cars.” He smiles, and receives a gentle smile in return, the kind that makes your eyes crinkle—Driver’s cheeks flushed a light pink.
Lunch runs smoothly after that. Patricia comes back to get their orders, he easily relays the order he gets every time he stops by—and Driver, across from him, orders the same. He finds it… not odd, but maybe surprising? That he ordered the same meal—but perhaps he just thought it sounded interesting, or he just happens to order the same thing!
Driver paid for their lunch—despite the argument Grace put up that he was supposed to take care of the expenses. Driver had simply shook his head, almost fondly, and paid in full.
He leaves their hangout… date? Oh, he's starting with that already. It was a hangout—just a hangout, with someone close in age to him. Keyword, close. Is it weird? He feels weird. He's nearly five years older than him.
Don't think about it too much, Grace! He shakes his head to rid the thoughts.
He should probably talk to Rocky and Adrian about this—definitely not Colt, not yet. It's too early!
He's getting ahead of himself, again.
His phone burns where it sits against his thigh, Driver’s contact now in his phone. He had looked at it earlier in the diner, a simple input of his name and where he knew him from—if Grace removed the ‘from Auto Shop’ bit, you didn’t hear it from him.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur.
He’s spent the majority of the day rolling around in the stool he was offered, doing his best to grade most of the homework he had available—he cringes, he definitely grades things late half the time, resulting in students begging him to grade their assignments so their parents aren't upset with them. Sorry, kids.
The other half was spent talking to Driver. Golly, he's just so happy he has something to call him now! Is that silly? Probably, but he was more than ecstatic to have a name to associate with his pretty, grease stained face. Pretty? Yep, moving on.
They were mostly one-sided conversations, but he honestly didn't mind. Driver would hum to let him know he was listening, even when his hands were busy working on the truck—and would occasionally add to the conversation whenever something sounded interesting to him or if he had a question.
He didn't mind that Driver was on the quieter side. Grace was used to carrying conversations, especially when it came to his rather shy students.
The sun was starting to set, casting a beautiful array of colors onto Driver’s back—shirt riding up slightly as he bent over the engine of the truck, the difference between the sun on his shirt and his back was almost angelic.
“Hey,” Driver’s voice draws his attention away from the small of his back, and instead to his face.
Grace smiles, feeling some major déjà vu, “hey yourself.”
Driver’s eyes crinkle, the sun spilling in from the garage door makes his lashes look golden. “It’s getting late, how about I drive you home?” He offers, wiping his hands down on a rag—he doubts the man would want to get his pretty car all dirty.
Grace blinks, far too focused on the sight in front of him, he almost wants to sear the image into his brain. He shakes out his shoulders. “Great! Yeah, yeah—let's head out.” He starts packing his things into his bag. If he did it slowly just to spend more time with Driver, you didn't hear it from him.
Driver, is of course, ready before he even finished.
Driver, of course, is already finished cleaning up his bay before Grace is finished. His hands are tucked into a jacket he hadn’t seen earlier—a somewhat off white color, golden scorpion on the back. It's fitting, and Grace wonders if it was custom made.
There's another toothpick between his lips, rolling it back and forth with his tongue. Grace pries his eyes away from the sight, he wouldn't want to make a fool out of himself by grabbing it and putting it between his lips.
Ugh, he's so embarrassing.
Driver opens the passenger door for him once again, letting him settle before closing it behind him. It's charming—everything he does seems that way.
It’s been one day, Ryland Grace.
The drive home was silent, save for his directions to his shabby apartment. Windows rolled down, wind flowing through their hair.
Grace isn't an artist, but the way Driver looks against the water painted sky and the dim lighting from the streets is enough for him to want to attempt picking up a paintbrush again.
“What time should I be picking you up in the morning?” Driver asks, smoothly turning them down another street.
Grace carefully scoots closer to the middle console, digging his elbow into it as he rests his chin into the palm of his hand. “Well…” he hums, tilting his head in his hand, hair falling over his eyes annoyingly. He spots Driver freezing momentarily by the sudden change in distance between them before he relaxes into his seat—a soft smile pulls at Grace’s lips.
“Around seven would be nice, if that isn't too big of an issue? Class starts at eight. It's always a little slow in the morning, some of the kiddos have a hard time dealing with transitions.” He purses his lips.
“I’ll be there.”
Grace tilts his head up, catching Driver’s eyes and the closed-lip smile on his face before he slides them back to the road—it almost seems like he forced himself to drag his eyes away from him, if the subtle pinch in his brows was anything to go by.
He feels surprisingly at peace.
He almost didn’t notice his apartment building coming into view, his eyes had closed at some point during their ride, listening to the sound of their tires on the asphalt—it was the sound of the car slowing down that notified him of something new, blinking his eyes open to see his apartment building.
He frowns.
Driver seems to find that funny, as he chuckles softly—and God he wants to hear more of that.
“This is your stop,” Driver raises his brows down at him, watching as Grace pulls himself out of his slightly uncomfortable position over the middle console—cracking his neck rather loudly.
“Guess it is, huh?” He sighs softly, eyeing the amused expression on Driver’s face. It was nice seeing him so expressive after their first introduction.
“M’kay,” Grace stretches, as best as he can without getting into Driver’s personal space. “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow morning,” he smiles somewhat awkwardly, attempting to shuffle out of his seat with all of his things.
He manages to get out of the car without much issue after that, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Grace can see Driver lean over the middle console so he can stay in view—charming.
He should really stop calling him that.
“Oh! You know what,” his brows raise in surprise, knocking the palm of his hand against his forehead as a small duh slips from his lips. “I never got your name. I know you said to call you Driver, but I wasn't sure if it was because you were uncomfortable in the diner.” He kicks at an invisible rock, “You already know I’m Grace—well, Ryland Grace. What about you?” He waves a hand towards Driver before he blinks dumbly, “I mean, your name.” Grace can feel as his face and ears begin to burn.
He can't quite stop embarrassing himself, huh?
“It’s nice to meet you, Ryland.” And oh, his stomach flips at the way Driver says his name. There's a slight tilt to Driver’s lips, it's about the sweetest thing he's ever seen.
Grace momentarily forgets about his embarrassment.
He smiles back warmly, feeling it pull at his cheeks, and he can't bring himself to be annoyed at the soreness he feels in his face—not when Driver’s lashes flutter at the sight of his smile.
Grace breathes air out from his nose, the action blowing hair off of his forehead. He hurriedly makes his way back to his apartment building, a spring in his step—he glances back to spot Driver still parked on the side of the road.
He waves goodbye, arm thrown over his head enthusiastically. Driver returns it, though not as energetic.
“Goodnight!” Grace cups his hands to his mouth, enhancing the volume. He can't quite see him from where he stands in front of the doors, but he swears he sees a smile before he slips inside the apartment building.
He goes through his night routine as he always does, not skipping a shower despite the tired ache in his bones—he simply doesn't want his sheets to smell like… whatever an auto shop smells like.
Grace is laid out in bed, sheets pulled up to his chest when he realizes he never actually got an answer out of Driver.
He groans, “dang it.” Grace drags a tired hand over his face, melting into his bed. He lays there for a moment, ruminating over how careless he is when his brain latches onto something more interesting—and he supposes at that moment was how breathtaking Driver looked.
He nearly falls out of bed when he remembers he now has Driver’s contact. Snatching it from where it was charging on the bedside table, shaking hands opening the ‘Driver from Auto Shop’ contact. He easily deletes the ‘from auto shop,’ leaving it as Driver.
Grace gulps, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
March 2
R.Grace 8:32 PM Hey, Driver! This is Ryland. Hope you don't mind me sending you a text! Thanks again for today, I really appreciate it all. 😊
Driver 🚗 8:33 PM
I don't mind.
See you tomorrow.
He presses his cheek into his pillow, a soft smile resting on his lips as he thinks of gelled blond hair, soft blue eyes and a toothpick sitting between plush lips.