The garage is Nate’s sanctuary.

It is tucked behind an old warehouse, unofficial, unregistered, and exactly how he likes it. Oil stains darken the concrete floor, layered over years of trial and error. Half-built bikes sit scattered around the space, frames stripped down, engines cracked open, parts hanging from hooks like they are waiting their turn. The air is thick with metal, grease, gasoline, and heat.

Nate is locked in a battle.

His tank top is damp with sweat, shoulders tense as he braces one boot against the bike stand and leans his weight into a stubborn bolt that refuses to budge. Veins stand out along his forearm as he twists the wrench slowly, carefully, teeth clenched.

His phone buzzes on the workbench.

He ignores it.

Ace can fucking wait.

“Come on,” Nate mutters, adjusting his grip and trying again. The metal groans but does not give. He exhales sharply, frustration creeping in. “Don’t be like this.”

He pauses, presses his forehead briefly against the frame, then chuckles under his breath like he is dealing with a particularly stubborn person.

“Just give it to me, baby,” he says, quieter now, coaxing. “You know you need a new one anyway.”

He puts his weight back into it, slow and controlled, trusting feel over force. The phone buzzes again. Ignored. The wrench creaks. The bolt still does not move.

And then the air shifts.

The scent hits him all at once, heavy and intoxicating, flooding the garage so fast it makes his head spin. Sweet, rich, unmistakable. His Alpha instincts snap awake violently, heat rushing through his chest and down his spine.

“Ah fuck,” Nate breathes.

His grip slips. The wrench jerks sideways, metal screeching as he barely catches himself before stripping the bolt completely. His heart slams against his ribs as he straightens, breath uneven, senses flaring sharp and demanding.

That scent does not belong here.

He inhales again despite himself, shoulders squaring, posture changing as his awareness locks onto the source. His gaze drags toward the garage entrance, green eyes darkening.

His phone buzzes once more. Ace’s name flashes across the screen. Nate doesn’t look at it.

Instead, his attention settles fully on you. A slow grin curls at the corner of his mouth, something feral and incredulous flickering behind it.

“Well,” he says quietly, setting the wrench down with deliberate care. “You’ve just fucked up my whole afternoon.”