"Pass me that wrench, will ya?" Liam grunted, grease smeared across his cheek. He didn't look up from the truck engine he was buried in.
Mark tossed it over. "Think she'll run by Friday? We got that haul upstate." His voice echoed slightly in the cavernous garage. Outside, a late afternoon drizzle misted the cracked asphalt parking lot.
"Maybe. If the damn gasket seals right this time." Liam wiped sweat with the back of his hand, leaving a darker streak. Both men wore oil-stained coveralls unzipped to the waist, revealing thick forearms and the edge of faded tattoos. They'd been mechanics together at Jensen's Auto for six years, ever since Liam got out of the Marines. Mark never asked about the scars, physical or otherwise.
The radio crackled with static, then bled into a country song about lost highways. Liam shifted under the hood, his knuckles white around a socket wrench. The gasket edge was stubborn, refusing to seat cleanly. "Goddamn thing," he muttered, the metallic scent of oil and coolant thick in his throat. Mark leaned against the workbench nearby, idly spinning a lug nut on the greasy surface. His gaze drifted past Liam’s shoulder, out the grimy garage window where rain slicked the asphalt into a dark mirror reflecting the neon sign of Rosie’s Diner across the street.
Silence stretched, heavy with the unspoken. It always did around quitting time on Thursdays. Six years of shared wrenches and burned knuckles, six years of Mark catching Liam’s thousand-yard-stare mid-laugh or the way Liam’s shoulders locked tight when a truck backfired too loud on the highway. Mark cleared his throat. "Heard from Jenna lately?"
Liam froze. The wrench slipped, clanging against the engine block. A sharp, hollow sound. He didn’t turn. "Nope." The word was clipped, final. Jenna was the scar Mark didn’t name – Liam’s ex, who’d packed her bags three months after his discharge, leaving a note about needing "less ghosts in the living room."
Mark watched Liam’s back, the tension corded in his neck visible even under the coveralls. He knew better than to push. Instead, he pushed off the bench. "I’ll grab us a couple beers from the fridge. This shit’s thirsty work."
The old fridge hummed in the corner, its door plastered with faded stickers from parts suppliers. Mark yanked it open, the hinge protesting with a metallic groan. The chill air hit his face as he grabbed two dripping cans of cheap lager. He popped one open, the sharp hiss cutting through the garage’s thick silence. Condensation beaded on the can as he turned back toward Liam, still buried under the hood.
Liam hadn’t moved. His shoulders were rigid, knuckles pale where he gripped the wrench. The country song faded into static again, leaving only the rhythmic drip-drip of rainwater leaking through the garage roof onto a stained concrete floor. Mark held out the beer. "Here. Before it gets warm."
Liam finally straightened, wiping his hands on a rag that left more grease than it removed. He took the can without meeting Mark’s eyes, his throat working as he took a long pull. The silence wasn’t comfortable anymore; it was a live wire strung between them.
Mark leaned against the dented fender of a ’98 Ford pickup, the metal cool through his coveralls. "That gasket’s fighting you harder than Jenna’s lawyer," he said quietly, the words out before he could bite them back.
Liam’s head snapped up. His eyes, usually a flat gray like weathered steel, were suddenly sharp, raw. "Don’t."
"Six years, Liam." Mark kept his voice low, steady. "You think I don’t see it? Every Thursday, you turn into a goddamn ghost." He gestured vaguely toward the window, where Rosie’s neon sign blurred in the rain. "You stare at that diner like she’s gonna walk out carrying a damn pie."
Liam crushed the empty beer can in his fist, the aluminum buckling with a sharp crack. "What’s it to you?" The question was a challenge, rough-edged.
Mark didn’t flinch. He took a slow sip of his own beer, the taste bitter on his tongue. "Maybe I’m tired of watching you bleed out over an engine block." He pushed off the fender, stepping closer. The scent of oil and stale sweat hung heavy between them. "Maybe I’m tired of passing you tools while you drown."
Liam’s breath hitched. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the relentless drip-drip from the roof and the distant rumble of thunder rolling in from the west. Then Liam’s fist slammed onto the hood of the truck — a dull, echoing thud that made the tools rattle on the bench. "You don’t know a damn thing!" he snarled, the words cracking.
Mark held his ground, his own pulse loud in his ears. "Then tell me."
Outside, the rain picked up, hammering against the corrugated metal roof like a thousand tiny fists. The neon glow from Rosie’s sign pulsed red through the grimy window, washing Liam’s face in bloody light.
"I was there," Liam said, the words scraped raw. He didn’t look at Mark. His gaze fixed on the dent his fist had left in the Ford’s hood. "When the IED went off. Not close enough to die. Close enough to … hear." His throat worked. "Smitty. He was singing. Some stupid country song. Loud. Always loud." A muscle jumped in Liam’s jaw. "One second, singing. Next … wet confetti." He finally turned, his eyes hollow. "Jenna didn’t leave ‘cause of ghosts, Mark. She left ‘cause I flinch when she drops a damn spoon."
Mark stayed silent, the unopened beer cold in his hand. The dripping water sounded like taps.
"I see him," Liam whispered, staring past Mark’s shoulder. "In the diner booth sometimes. Through the window. Just … sitting there. Singing." He laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "Doc says it’s PTSD. Says it’s normal." He crushed the empty can tighter. "Nothing normal about seeing your best friend’s guts on a sand dune."
Thunder cracked, closer now. The garage lights flickered. Mark stepped forward, closing the distance. He didn’t offer platitudes. Didn’t touch him. Just held out the cold beer again, his knuckles brushing Liam’s grease-blackened ones. "Drink," he said, his voice rough but steady. "Then we finish that gasket. Friday’s haul ain’t waiting for ghosts."
Liam stared at the offered can. His breath shuddered out. Slowly, his fingers uncurled from the mangled aluminum. He took the fresh beer. The hiss of the tab breaking the seal was loud in the sudden quiet.
Mark watched him drink deep, Adam's apple bobbing. The neon's red pulse caught the tremor in Liam's hand. "Smitty," Mark said softly. The name hung there, unfamiliar on his tongue but heavy as a lug nut. "Heard you talk about him once. Said he could rebuild a transmission blindfolded."
A ghost of something flickered in Liam's eyes — not pain, not yet. Surprise. "Yeah," he rasped. "Used welding rods as drumsticks on oil drums." He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Annoying bastard."
Mark leaned back against the Ford's fender, the cold metal biting through his coveralls. "Sounds like he'd fit right in here." He gestured at the cluttered garage, the smell of solvent and stale coffee thick in the damp air. Outside, the rain intensified, blurring Rosie's neon into a watery smear. "Better company than staring at that damn diner."
Liam huffed, almost a laugh. Almost. He crushed the second can, less violently this time. "Maybe." He tossed the crumpled metal toward the recycling bin. It clattered against the rim and fell in. "Gasket ain't gonna seat itself." He turned back to the engine bay, grabbing the socket wrench. "Hand me the torque wrench. And the sealant paste."
Mark passed him the tube. "You're not the only one who sees things, you know," he said, his voice casual, like discussing carburetors. He kept his eyes on Liam's hands as they smeared paste along the gasket edge. "After my old man died … kept smelling his cheap aftershave. Bay Rum. Like he was right behind me." He paused. "Drove me nuts.”
Liam's knuckles whitened around the wrench. "What'd you do?"
"Bought a bottle," Mark shrugged. "Spilled half of it in the dumpster out back." He watched Liam carefully seat the gasket. "Smell stopped after that."
The socket wrench clicked rhythmically as Liam torqued the bolts. Rain drummed harder on the roof, filling the silence. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. "Smitty hated the rain. Said desert sand got in places rain never reached." A bolt slipped, grazing his knuckle. He swore, sucking blood from the cut.
Mark grabbed the first aid kit without asking. They both knew where it lived - under the bench beside the WD-40. He tore open an alcohol pad. "Hold still." The sharp scent cut through oil fumes as he wiped Liam's knuckle. Liam didn't flinch. Mark pressed a bandage over the cut, his fingers lingering a heartbeat too long on Liam's calloused skin.
The overhead lights flickered again as thunder boomed directly overhead. Darkness swallowed the garage for three full seconds before the fluorescents buzzed back to life. In that sudden blackness, Liam's hand clamped around Mark's wrist like a vise. Neither moved when the light returned. Rainwater dripped steadily into the metal bucket by the door. Plink. Plink. Plink.
Mark didn't pull away. "Still seeing him?"
Liam's grip eased but didn't release. "Right now?" His eyes locked on Mark's. "All I see is you."
The admission hung between them, raw as the ozone scent seeping through the garage doors. Mark felt the pulse thrumming against his thumb where it pressed against Liam's inner wrist. Grease, blood, and rainwater mingled in the air. Outside, Rosie’s neon sign blinked out completely, plunging the bay into near-darkness save for the work lamp’s harsh yellow pool over the engine block.
Mark didn’t move. "Good." The word was gravel. He shifted his hand slowly, turning his wrist until their palms met, grease and bandages and all. Calluses scraped together. Liam’s breath hitched — not fear, but the sharp intake before a jump. Six years of silence dissolved in the drumming rain. Mark leaned in, the Ford’s cold fender biting his back. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, the words lost under thunder.
Liam’s free hand came up, trembling. Not to push away. His thumb brushed the stubble along Mark’s jaw, rough as sandpaper. A question. An answer. The kiss wasn’t gentle — it was a collision, oil and blood and cheap beer sharp on their tongues. Liam made a sound low in his throat, half-groan, half-relief, fingers tangling in Mark’s coveralls. The socket wrench clattered to the concrete, forgotten.
They broke apart, gasping. Rain sheeted down the windows, turning the world beyond into a watery abstraction. Liam’s forehead pressed against Mark’s temple. "Smitty’s gone," he whispered, more to himself.
Mark’s hand slid up his spine, feeling the knotted tension beneath the damp fabric. "Yeah." He didn’t offer empty comfort. Just anchored him there, in the humid dark, while the storm raged.
Liam’s shoulders shook once, violently, then stilled. When he lifted his head, his eyes were red-rimmed but clear. "The gasket," he rasped.
Mark reached down blindly, fingers closing around the torque wrench. "Where?" His thumb stroked the bandage on Liam’s knuckle. Liam guided his hand to the final bolt, their fingers overlapping on the grip. The click of the wrench setting tension was the only punctuation. Done.
Liam exhaled, long and slow. "Friday’s haul," he said, not letting go.
Mark nodded toward the drowned world outside. "Storm’s got other plans." A flicker of neon — Rosie’s sign sputtering back to life — painted Liam’s face in fleeting crimson. He didn’t look.
"Good," Liam said again, rough but sure. His fingers tightened around Mark’s. The rain’s rhythm softened to a steady hush.
They stayed like that, shoulders pressed together on the lumpy couch, the Ford’s engine block cooling beside them. Mark traced the edge of Liam’s bandage with his thumb. "Smitty," he ventured, testing the name. "He’d hate this couch."
Liam snorted. "Too soft. Bastard slept on toolboxes." A pause. "Kept candy bars in his helmet liner. Melted Snickers." The memory pulled a ghost-smile. Mark stored it away — a fragment of the man haunting the diner window.
Silence settled, easier now. Mark felt the coiled tension in Liam’s arm slowly unraveling. "Jenkins pays overtime for storm delays," he offered casually.
Liam’s chuckle was a low rumble. "Since when?" He shifted, turning toward Mark. Rain light caught the exhaustion in his eyes, but beneath it, something new: a fragile steadiness. "You smell like WD-40 and bad decisions."
Mark grinned. "You taste like cheap beer and regret." He leaned in, slower this time. Their lips met — less collision, more exploration. Grease, salt, the lingering bitterness of hops. Liam’s hand slid up Mark’s neck, calluses catching on stubble. The kiss deepened, urgent but not desperate. When they parted, foreheads touching, Liam’s breath warmed Mark’s cheek. "Regret’s overrated," he murmured.
Outside, headlights sliced through the downpour — Jenkins’ rusty pickup splashing into the lot. Liam stiffened, pulling back. Mark squeezed his wrist. "Just Jenkins." The engine died. Car door slammed. Footsteps approached the side door, boots scraping wet concrete.
Liam stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Mark rose beside him, grabbing a rag to scrub grease off his palms. The door creaked open. Jenkins stood dripping, scowling at the leak bucket overflowing near the Ford. "Truck done?" he barked, shaking water off his cap.
Liam picked up the torque wrench. "Gasket’s sealed." He didn’t look at Mark. But his shoulder, as he walked toward Jenkins, deliberately bumped Mark’s. A silent promise. Jenkins grunted, already complaining about flooded roads. Mark watched Liam’s back — straight, purposeful — and smiled.
The storm lashed harder against the garage walls as Jenkins stomped around inspecting the Ford. Rainwater pooled near the workbench, reflecting the flickering overhead lights. "Looks solid," Jenkins conceded, wiping condensation from the hood. "But haul’s postponed ‘til this mess clears. Monday." He eyed them both, water dripping from his nose. "Lock up. Don’t cap. "And fix that damn roof leak."
The side door slammed shut behind Jenkins. Silence rushed back in, louder than the rain. Liam stood frozen, staring at the dented Ford hood. Mark moved first. He grabbed two fresh beers from the fridge, the hiss of tabs breaking the quiet. "Monday," he echoed, handing one to Liam. Their fingers touched. Held. Liam finally turned. The raw edge in his eyes had softened into something wary. Open.
They drank in the humid dark, shoulders inches apart. Mark traced the condensation on his can. "Snickers," he said quietly. "In his helmet?"
Liam nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. "Always. Said desert heat improved the texture." He took a long pull of beer. "Stupid bastard." The words held no sting. Outside, the neon sign buzzed erratically, casting jagged red shadows across the tools.
Mark set his empty can down with a soft clink. "Roof leak first?"
Liam shook his head, gaze fixed on the overflowing bucket by the door. "Later." He stepped closer, grease-stained fingers brushing Mark's wrist. "Jenkins is gone." The implication hung between them, charged as the ozone-heavy gust rattled the bay doors. Liam's thumb rubbed circles over Mark's pulse point. "Because," he added, voice rough, "I need to not think about ghosts for five damn minutes." He leaned in, forehead resting against Mark's temple.
The scent of oil and sweat and storm-damp skin filled Mark's senses. He turned his head, catching Liam's mouth in a slow, deliberate kiss. No urgency now — just heat and the shared taste of cheap lager and something unnamable. Liam's hand slid up his back, bunching the coverall fabric.
They broke apart as thunder shook the building. Liam's hand lingered on Mark's hip, fingers digging in possessively. "Stop staring at my dick," he muttered, the flush creeping up his neck.
Mark grinned, slow and wolfish. "It's memorable." He reached out, thumb wiping a smear of grease from Liam's jawbone. "Like a bad tattoo." The storm outside mirrored the recklessness humming in his veins. He steered Liam toward the dented Ford, pushing him back against the cold fender. "Five minutes," he breathed against Liam's ear, feeling the shudder that ran through him. "No ghosts. Just this."
Liam's laugh was breathless, strained. "On Jenkins' payroll?" But his hands were already fumbling with Mark's coverall zipper, knuckles brushing bare skin. The rain hammered a frantic rhythm on the roof. Mark kissed him again, deep and claiming, tasting desperation and relief. Liam arched into it, the toolbox digging into his back forgotten. His fingers tangled in Mark's hair, pulling him closer. The work lamp cast their tangled shadow huge against the tool-strewn wall — a monstrous, moving shape.
A sudden, violent gust rattled the bay doors. They froze, lips inches apart, breathing ragged. Liam's eyes searched Mark's face, the gray no longer flat but storm-tossed, alive. "Sunshine," he rasped, the old nickname for Jenna catching in his throat like broken glass.
Mark didn't flinch. He pressed his forehead to Liam's, a silent anchor. "Not her," he murmured. "Me."
Liam shuddered, a full-body tremor Mark felt through the layers of grease-stained fabric. His fingers tightened on Mark's hips, pulling him flush against the Ford's cold metal. The kiss that followed was fierce, a claiming. Teeth scraped lips, hands roamed — Mark's sliding under Liam's coveralls to trace the hard planes of his back, Liam's tangling in Mark's hair, pulling hard enough to sting. Rainwater dripped onto Liam's neck from a seam in the roof, tracing a path down his collarbone. Mark followed it with his tongue, tasting salt and metal and desperation.
Liam gasped, head thudding back against the fender. "Mark —" His voice cracked. Mark silenced him with another kiss, swallowing the sound. He fumbled with Liam's zipper, the rasp loud in the humid dark. Calloused hands met bare skin. Liam hissed, arching off the metal.
"Five minutes," Mark reminded him, rough against his jaw. "Just us."
The work lamp flickered wildly as thunder boomed directly overhead. In the strobing light, Mark saw it — the raw hunger in Liam's eyes, the way his pupils swallowed the gray. No hesitation now. Liam shoved Mark's coveralls down his shoulders, trapping his arms. Mark laughed, a low, dangerous sound, and used his trapped leverage to spin them, pinning Liam harder against the truck. Their hips ground together, denim and worn cotton no barrier to the heat building. Liam groaned, biting Mark's shoulder through the fabric. "Fuck the ghosts," he panted.
Outside, Rosie's neon sign finally died with a sputtering fizzle. Total darkness swallowed the bay. Only the frantic drumming rain remained. Mark found Liam's mouth blindly in the black, kissing him like drowning was inevitable. Liam's hands were everywhere — urgent, clumsy, mapping the familiar terrain of Mark's body with new, desperate ownership. Their breaths mingled, sharp and fast. The storm raged. The ghosts held their breath.
Liam shoved Mark backward until his spine hit the cold metal of the Ford's door. The impact rattled the window. Mark gasped. Liam used the moment to rip his own grease-stained undershirt over his head, tossing it onto the wet concrete. Rainwater dripped onto his bare shoulders from the leaky roof. Mark traced the paths with his knuckles, feeling the tremor beneath Liam's skin. "Still see him?" Mark asked, rough against Liam's collarbone.
Liam tangled his fingers in Mark's hair, pulling his head back sharply. "Right now?" His voice was gravel. "All I feel is you." He kissed Mark again, deep and claiming, teeth scraping lips. Thunder shook the building. The toolbox clattered to the floor. Neither flinched.
Mark pushed Liam's coveralls down his hips. The air was thick, humid, smelling of ozone and desperation. Liam kicked free of the tangled fabric. His hand slid between them, calloused fingers wrapping around Mark's hardness through worn denim. Mark groaned, forehead pressing into Liam's shoulder. "Sunshine," Liam breathed, the name rough against Mark's ear. This time, it wasn't Jenna. It was a promise. A curse. A benediction.
He dropped to his knees. The concrete was cold, gritty beneath his knees. Mark braced himself against the Ford's door, fingers scraping paint. Liam's mouth was hot, wet, demanding. Mark gasped, head thudding back against the window. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating Liam's face for a split second — eyes shut, brow furrowed in fierce concentration. Then darkness swallowed them again. Only sensation remained: the slick heat, the scrape of stubble, the rhythmic pull that unraveled Mark's control thread by thread. Rain hammered the roof like applause. Mark's fingers tightened in Liam's hair.
"Liam —" The name tore from him, ragged. Liam hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight to Mark's core. The ghosts were silent. The storm roared. And for five stolen minutes, there was only this.
Afterward, they slumped against the Ford's cold flank, breathing hard in the humid dark. Liam rested his forehead against Mark's hipbone. Mark traced the knobs of Liam's spine, slick with sweat and rain. The neon sign flickered weakly back to life outside, casting watery red light over discarded coveralls and the crumpled undershirt. Liam lifted his head. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark pools reflecting the pulsing glow. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Mark hauled him up, pulling him close. Skin slid against skin, sticky and real. Liam buried his face in the crook of Mark's neck, breathing him in — WD-40, sweat, storm. Mark held him, feeling the frantic pulse beneath Liam's ribs gradually slow. The rain softened to a steady hush. No ghosts. Just the aftermath, warm and heavy between them.
They dressed in silence, movements slow, deliberate. Liam picked up his grease-blackened shirt, sniffed it, and tossed it toward the overflowing laundry bin. Mark handed him his coveralls. Their fingers brushed. Held. Liam looked at him, really looked, in the dim red light. The thousand-yard stare was gone, replaced by something raw and present.
"Monday," Liam said, his voice rough but steady, "we fix the roof."
Mark nodded, zipping his own coveralls. "And get more Snickers."
A ghost-smile touched Liam's lips. "For the toolbox." He grabbed the torque wrench from the floor, its weight familiar. The Ford's engine block gleamed faintly in the gloom, the gasket sealed tight. Ready for the haul. Ready for Monday. Ready for whatever came after the storm.
Outside, the rain eased to a drizzle. The rhythmic drip-drip into the bucket slowed. Mark flipped off the work lamp. Only Rosie's flickering neon remained, painting stripes of crimson across the oil-stained concrete. Liam stood by the side door, staring out at the drowned parking lot. Mark joined him, shoulder pressing against Liam's. The silence wasn't a wire anymore. It was a shared breath.
Liam's hand found Mark's in the shadows. Callus scraped callus. "He'd hate this," Liam murmured, not looking away from the watery darkness. "Smitty. Whining about the rain."
Mark squeezed his fingers. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "He'd be banging on drums right now. Driving Jenkins nuts."
Liam huffed, a real laugh this time, low and warm. "Annoying bastard." He leaned his weight against Mark. Solid. Anchored.
They locked the bay doors together, the heavy metal clanging shut against the damp night. The walk to their trucks was short, puddles reflecting the weak neon. Liam paused by his old Chevy's driver door. Raindrops glistened in his stubble. He turned, catching Mark's wrist. "Tomorrow," he said, the word heavy with unspoken things. "My place. Before the haul." It wasn't a question.
Mark met his gaze. The ghosts were quiet in Liam's eyes. "Bring tools?" Mark asked, a slow grin spreading.
Liam's thumb traced the bandage on Mark's knuckle. "Just you." He pulled Mark in, one last kiss in the rain-scented dark – brief, fierce, a promise sealed. Then he was gone, taillights cutting through the mist toward the highway. Mark stood alone in the empty lot, the taste of cheap beer and Liam still on his lips, listening to the last drops fall.
The storm was over. Something else had just begun.
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