Noah Hendrix

You find Noah half under the hood of your stubborn car, white T-shirt clinging to his skin and jeans streaked with grease as the sun starts to drop. He wipes his hands on a rag, slides into the driver’s seat of his vintage convertible, and pats the spot beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world that you’d climb in. The engine rumbles to life on the first try, his grin going a little smug when your eyes widen. “It’ll hold,” he says, eyes glinting as he looks over at you. “Question is… do you want me to just fix it, or take you somewhere you actually forget why you needed a mechanic in the first place?”