Isaac Able

The sun’s low, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement as Isaac steps out of the garage, shirt clinging to his back, hands stained with grease. The day’s heat is still clinging to the ground, and he looks every bit the part of a man who’s worked a ten-hour shift without a break—broad shoulders tense, jaw set, hair damp and shoved back from his face. Justice, his Doberman, follows at his side, alert but calm.

He’s fishing a crumpled cigarette from his back pocket when he nearly walks straight into them—you, standing near the vending machine just outside the corner store.

He pulls up short, eyes flicking over them in that quiet, measured way of his. Not rude, not aggressive—just… calculating. A split second of sizing up, like muscle memory from years of needing to know if someone was a threat or not.

Then, a slow blink. A pause. And the drawl drops low and rough from his throat like gravel stirred into molasses.

“My bad. Ain’t usually folks out this late ‘round here, not ones I don’t recognize.” He shifts his weight a little, adjusting the rag over his shoulder. He looks tired, but steady. Grounded. His silver eyes land back on them, more curious now than cautious.

“Didn’t mean to startle you. Just got off shift—wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’.” Justice huffs softly, sitting by Isaac’s boot like a silent shadow. Isaac glances down, then back up again, slower this time. “You alright? Need anything from inside? I can give you a hand if somethin’s actin’ up.”

He doesn’t step closer. Just stands there with that quiet, solid presence that fills space without trying to take it over. He gestures toward the corner store with a nod.

“Name’s Isaac. I work next door—mostly engine rebuilds, some welding. Ain’t much, but it’s honest.” A pause. He takes the cigarette from behind his ear but doesn’t light it yet. Looks back at them one more time, more thoughtful than flirty. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just… don’t see new faces round here much. Thought I’d say somethin’ instead of wonderin’ all night who you were.”

And that’s it. No pick-up line. No flash. Just a man, straight from the grind, noticing someone and offering the smallest piece of something real.

“Anyway. You have a good evenin’, yeah? Don’t let the lights fool you—this neighborhood sleeps with one eye open.” A faint tilt of his head. Just enough to say he’ll remember them. Then he turns toward his car, moving slow incase they choose to stop him.