Chapter 7: Jack’s Garage (Tim POV)

I bolted from the hallway after that shadow—pink hair or not—flashed and vanished. Couldn’t stay there, couldn’t think straight with Lisa’s lie—pregnant, you’re the dad—chewing me up. Needed out, needed Jack. I grabbed my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and hit the parking lot fast, sneakers slapping pavement. The sun was low, orange streaks cutting through gray clouds, air turning cool. A stray cat darted across the street, tail flicking, as I headed for the edge of campus. Jack’s shop wasn’t far—a mile, maybe less—and I walked it, hands in my pockets, gravel crunching under my soles.

The auto shop came up quick, a squat building with peeling paint, oil stains dark on the concrete. Jack’s truck sat out front, hood scratched, tires caked with mud. I pushed the garage door open, metal rattling loud, and stepped inside. The smell hit me—grease, gas, rubber—thick and heavy. Tools clanged somewhere deep in the shop, a radio humming low, some old rock song I didn’t know. Jack was there, under a beat-up sedan, legs sticking out, boots scuffed. Grease streaked his jeans, his hands, black smudges on his knuckles as he twisted a wrench.

“Hey,” I said, dropping my backpack by the wall. The thud echoed, soft but sharp. He slid out, slow, sitting up on the creeper, blue eyes catching mine. His dark hair stuck to his forehead, sweaty, a few gray strands catching the light. “Tim?” he said, wiping his hands on a rag, voice gravelly, rough from the day. “You okay?” I shrugged, kicked the floor light, a speck of dirt skittering away. “Needed to get out,” I muttered, keeping it short.

He stood, tossed the rag on a workbench, and brushed his jeans off, grease still clinging. I caught his arms—broad, muscled under his shirt, rolled sleeves tight on his biceps. My throat went dry, fast. Yesterday slammed back—him in the armchair, jeans bulging, staring at me naked, water dripping down my chest. I tugged a loose strand of hair behind my ear, quick, a tic I couldn’t shake. He’d seen me, all of me, and I’d seen him, that heat in his pants, plain as day. The air thickened, heavy, like it could snap.

“You look off,” he said, stepping closer, boots thudding on the concrete. His eyes narrowed, searching me, and I crossed my arms, tight across my chest. “Just a crap day,” I said, glancing at the car instead of him. Tools littered the floor—screwdrivers, a hammer, a socket wrench—scattered like he’d been rushing. Something was wrong, I could feel it, but he didn’t say. He picked up a wrench, turned it over in his hands, then set it down, slow, deliberate.

“School?” he asked, leaning on the workbench, hip cocked. His shirt stretched over his shoulders, grease smudging the hem. I nodded, unzipped my backpack, and pulled out my water bottle, just to move my hands. “Yeah,” I said, unscrewing the cap, taking a sip. Cold water hit my tongue, sharp, but it didn’t cool the mess in my head. Lisa’s whisper—pregnant, you’re the dad—twisted in there, and Jack’s stare from yesterday layered on top, thick and loud.

He watched me, quiet, wiping his hands again even though the rag was filthy. Tension hummed between us, unspoken, stretching tight. I capped the bottle, slid it back in my bag, and paced a couple steps, sneakers squeaking on the floor. His eyes followed, steady, unblinking, and I remembered—me bare, him hard, neither of us saying a damn thing about it. My pulse kicked up, thudding in my ears, and I stopped, leaned on the car hood, warm metal under my palms.

“Work’s a bitch,” he said sudden, breaking the silence. He grabbed a screwdriver, spun it on the bench, the clink loud in the quiet. “Boss riding me hard.” His voice was tight, clipped, not like him. I looked up, caught his jaw clenching, a flicker of something dark in his eyes. “Paul?” I asked, straightening up. Lisa’s dad—had to be. He nodded, short, and tossed the screwdriver down, metal bouncing once.

“Yeah,” he said, crossing his arms now, mirroring me. “Cutting hours, talking shit.” He didn’t meet my eyes, stared at the floor instead, boots tapping restless. I wanted to ask—What’s he got on you?—but the words stuck, heavy as rocks. That moment yesterday, him seeing me, me seeing him, hung there, clogging everything up. I tugged my hair again, harder, the pull stinging my scalp.

A bird fluttered outside, wings flapping against the window, a quick shadow darting past. I glanced over—glass smudged, dusk settling in fast. “You good here?” I asked, shifting my weight, backpack strap digging into my shoulder. He shrugged, picked up a rag again, twisted it in his hands. “Fine,” he said, but it sounded off, forced. Something was eating him, same as me, but he wouldn’t spill.

I stepped closer, close enough to smell the grease on him, the faint sweat under it. “Jack,” I started, voice low, cracking a little. He looked up, sharp, blue eyes locking mine, and my breath caught, quick and hard. That bulge flashed—yesterday, him sitting there, jeans tight—and my dick twitched, traitor, remembering me naked in front of him. I swallowed, stepped back fast, bumped the workbench, a wrench clattering to the floor.

He bent to grab it, slow, and stood back up, closer now. “What’s with you, Tim?” he asked, voice dropping, rougher. His hand brushed my arm, quick, grease smearing my sleeve, and I froze, heat spiking up my spine. Didn’t pull away, couldn’t. “Nothing,” I lied, tugging my jacket sleeve down, covering the mark. Wanted to say it—Lisa’s messing with me, saying I got her pregnant—but her lie mixed with this, him and me, and it choked me silent.

He stared, too long, eyes flicking down my chest then back up. I shifted, tapped my foot on the concrete, restless again. “You’re tense,” he said, stepping back, leaning on the car now, arms crossed tight. His shirt pulled, grease streaks dark against the fabric, and I couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop seeing yesterday. “You too,” I shot back, short, shoving my hands in my pockets.

A car horn blared outside, sharp, cutting through. I flinched, glanced at the window—nothing but shadows now, night creeping in. Jack rubbed his neck, rag still in his fist, and turned away, grabbing a socket wrench like he’d start working again. “Gotta finish this,” he muttered, voice flat, distracted. I nodded, grabbed my backpack, and swung it over my shoulder, straps creaking. “Yeah, see you,” I said, heading for the door.

Pushed it open, cool air hitting me, but stopped, hand on the frame. Looked back—he was under the car again, wrench clanking, but his shoulders were stiff, tight. Something was off, bad, and it wasn’t just work. Yesterday hung there, thick, unspoken—him hard, me bare—and now this, whatever he wasn’t saying. I let the door swing shut, stepped out, gravel crunching under me, and froze as his voice called, low, “Tim, wait,” just as the door clicked closed.