Chapter 1: Grease-Stained Savior
The rain wasn’t falling so much as attacking, a cold, needling assault that had turned Eleanor’s sensible wool coat into a leaden sponge. Her portfolio of carefully organized documents—her life in paperwork—was clutched to her chest like a shield, but the manila folder was softening, the corners blurring into pulp. Each step sent a splash of icy water up her stockings. This was not in the plan. The plan involved a tidy appointment at the immigration office, a polite stamp, and a quiet cup of tea afterwards. It did not involve a blown tire on a desolate stretch of industrial road, or a mad dash towards the only source of light: a flickering neon sign that buzzed ‘ROSSI AUTO & CUSTOM’.
She pushed the heavy door open, a bell jangling a frantic announcement of her disaster. The air inside was thick, warm, and smelled profoundly of male labor—engine grease, hot metal, rubber, and something earthy like sweat. It was a smell that immediately made her feel out of place, a library book dropped in a toolbox.
The main bay was cavernous, shadows pooling around the hulks of cars in various states of undress. Tools lay scattered on rolling carts, and a radio, tuned to a static-laced rock station, competed with the steady drip-drip-drip from a corner. But the rhythmic sound, the one that had drawn her in, was a solid clang… clang… clang coming from under the raised undercarriage of a vintage Mustang.
“Hello?” Her voice came out smaller than she intended, swallowed by the vast, oily space.
The clanging stopped. A pair of worn, grease-stained boots slid into view first, then denim-clad legs. Then a torso, and Eleanor’s breath hitched. The man was shirtless, lying on a creeper board. A web of intricate tattoos spanned his shoulders and chest, designs obscured by smears of dark grease that looked like war paint. He pushed himself out fully and sat up, wiping his hands on a rag that did nothing to clean them.
His eyes found her, and a slow, easy grin spread across his face. It was a grin that knew things, that had seen many things, and it made her want to immediately straighten her soaked, frizzing hair.
“You look like you need saving, little mouse,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, tinged with an accent that softened his consonants. It was not the voice of a government clerk.
“I… my car. A tire. It’s flat.” She gestured vaguely behind her, as if the ruined Peugeot might be visible through the wall.
“Figured it wasn’t the company.” He stood in one fluid motion, and she took an involuntary step back. He was tall, the defined muscles of his abdomen flexing as he stretched. He picked a faded grey t-shirt off a workbench and pulled it on over his head, the fabric stretching tight across his shoulders. The gesture somehow made him more intimidating, not less. “Lando Rossi. You’re in the right place, even if you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
“Eleanor,” she managed, shifting the soggy portfolio. “Ainsworth. I have an appointment downtown in an hour. My visa.”
He walked past her, the scent of motor oil and clean sweat trailing in his wake, and peered out the glass door into the downpour. “In this? They’ll think you swam there. The tire’s the least of your problems.” He turned, his dark eyes appraising her from dripping head to squelching shoes. “You’re shaking.”
She was. Partly from cold, partly from the sheer, cascading failure of the day. “It’s rather important. The appointment. If I miss it…”
Lando nodded, a quick, decisive dip of his chin. “Right. Come on.” He didn’t wait for agreement, just strode towards a doorway leading to a back room. After a moment’s hesitation, Eleanor followed.
The back room was warmer, heated by a small, pot-bellied furnace glowing orange in the corner. It was less a room and more a chaotic annex of the bay—engine blocks on pallets, shelves overflowing with parts, a frayed couch that had probably been olive green decades ago. He grabbed a dry, surprisingly clean-looking flannel shirt from a hook. “Here. Off with the coat.”
It was a command, not a suggestion. Flustered, Eleanor set her portfolio on a cluttered worktable and struggled with the sopping coat buttons. Her fingers were numb. She finally shrugged it off, revealing a cream-colored blouse now plastered transparently to her skin. She crossed her arms over her chest, flushing.
Lando didn’t leer. He just held out the flannel. “Put this on. Then sit.” He pointed to the couch.
The shirt was enormous on her, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem brushing her thighs. It smelled of detergent and, faintly, of him—that workshop smell. She sank onto the couch, the old springs groaning in protest.
He dragged a metal stool over and sat in front of her, knees wide. “Let’s see the paperwork.”
“What?”
“Your visa stuff. Let me see it.”
“Why?” The question was automatic, a reflex of her orderly, private nature.
“Because it’s currently turning into porridge in that folder, and you’re about to have a full-blown British panic attack on my couch. I can’t fix that. But I might be able to fix the other thing.” He held out a hand, palm up. His fingers were long, the nails short and lined with ground-in grime that no amount of scrubbing would ever fully remove.
Reluctantly, she handed over the folder. He opened it on his knees, his movements surprisingly careful. He examined each damp page—the application, the bank statements, the letter from her employer at the archive library. He studied them with a focus she hadn’t expected, his brow furrowed.
“Expired three days ago,” he murmured.
“I know. That’s why this appointment is—”
“Crucial. Yeah.” He looked up at her. “You got a phone?”
She nodded, pulling her mobile from her purse. The screen was mercifully dry.
“Good. Call the office. Tell them you had car trouble but you’re on your way. Be polite. Sound helpless but competent. It’s a fine line.”
Eleanor blinked. “You’ve done this before?”
“I’ve helped people who were in binds tighter than a seized bolt.” He grinned again, that quick flash of white. “My cousin Salvatore. Twice. Now call.”
While she made the call, her voice trembling only slightly as she spun the tale of the tire and the rain, Lando busied himself at the workbench. She heard the clatter of tools, the hiss of an aerosol can. When she hung up, having secured a grudging extension until closing time, he was holding a heavy-duty hair dryer.
“Come here,” he said, plugging it in by the furnace.
“What for?”
“The papers, Ellie. We’re saving your papers.” He’d already started calling her Ellie. He said it so casually, as if they’d known each other for years. He laid the pages out on the bench, smoothing them carefully with his big hands, and began moving the dryer in slow, sweeping passes over them. “Your car’s a ten-minute job. These are the priority.”
She watched him, this strange, shirtless-then-shirted man, this tattooed mechanic in a kingdom of metal, meticulously drying her immigration forms. The warm air fluttered the pages. The hum of the dryer mixed with the steady hiss of the furnace. The smell of hot paper and warm oil filled the space. Her panic, a sharp-edged thing in her chest, began to soften, to unclench.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t look up from his work. “You walked into my shop. You need help. It’s not complicated.” He lifted a page, checked its dryness, and set it aside. “Besides, little mouse, you looked like you were about to cry. I hate crying.”
“I don’t cry,” she said, with more defiance than she felt.
“Good.” He shot her a glance, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Keep that energy for the government lady.”
He finished with the last page, assembled them back in order, and slid them into a new, dry folder he produced from a drawer. He handed it to her. “Right. Car.”
The fix was, as he promised, swift. He had the spare on in minutes, his movements economical and sure. He refused payment. “Rainy day special,” he said, slamming her trunk closed. “Just get going.”
She was back in her damp coat, her precious dry folder in hand, standing by her car door. The rain had softened to a drizzle. “Thank you, Lando. Truly.”
He leaned against the doorframe of his shop, arms crossed, a silhouette against the glowing interior light. “Don’t mention it. Go get your stamp.”
She nodded, got in the car, and started the engine. As she pulled away, she saw him still standing there, watching her go. She lifted a hand in a wave. He didn’t wave back, just gave that same slow, knowing grin.
The immigration office was a nightmare of fluorescent lights and impatient sighs, but her papers were perfect, crisply dry and in perfect order. The stamp came down with a satisfying thump. It was over.
Driving home, the heater finally blasting, she realized she was still wearing his flannel shirt. She’d forgotten to give it back. The scent of the garage, of him, still clung to it. She thought of his hands, careful on her documents, capable on the wrench. She thought of his grin in the dim light.
Two days later, she stood outside Rossi Auto & Custom again, the folded and laundered flannel shirt in a bag in her hands. The bell jangled her entrance.
He was under the hood of a different car this time, his t-shirt straining across his back as he worked. He heard the bell and straightened, wiping his hands. When he saw her, the grin appeared instantly.
“Little mouse,” he said. “You get sorted?”
“I did.” She held out the bag. “Your shirt. Thank you again.”
He took it, his fingers brushing hers. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” She took a breath, the words rushing out before she could stop them. “And I wanted to know if… if maybe I could buy you a coffee. Or a drink. To thank you properly.”
His eyebrows rose. He looked amused, intrigued. He dropped the bag on the counter and studied her, his head tilted. “A drink?”
“Or dinner,” she said, her voice gaining a bit of strength from sheer terror. “I’m… I’m quite a good cook, actually.”
Lando let out a soft laugh, a rich, warm sound. He walked around the counter until he was standing right in front of her, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint line of grease along his jaw. He reached out and very gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his touch surprisingly soft.
“Dinner, huh?” he murmured. “You sure you know what you’re asking for, Ellie?”
She met his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs. For the first time in her carefully ordered life, she wasn’t sure of anything at all. And for the first time, that felt entirely thrilling.
“No,” she said honestly. “I’m really not.”
His smile then was different—softer, less of a smirk, more genuine. It reached his eyes. “Good,” he said. “That’s the best way to start.”