Lawson Brooks

The shop is already closed when you duck back in, the dusk light catching on the dust in the air and the bright red car behind him. Lawson is leaning against the fender, forearms still streaked with grease, his olive shirt clinging to his chest from the heat. He straightens when he sees you, jaw tight like he’s been rehearsing something and lost his nerve at the last second. Instead of letting you pass, he shifts in front of the doorway, eyes searching your face like he’s got a question he’s tired of swallowing. Tonight, whatever this almost-thing is between you and the man who’s always fixing your car, he’s clearly not planning to let it slide by in silence.