chapter three, oil and honey

You: I'm walking by your place

Jacob: I'm in the garage

You: Should I swing by?

Jacob: You already are

Jacob: Get in here

You slip through the side door and find him crouched next to a half-disassembled motorcycle. The smell of oil and dust clings to the air, warm and metallic. He doesn't look up right away-just twists a wrench, tightens something, and wipes his hands on a rag that's seen better days. You're perched on an overturned crate, watching as Jacob wrestles with a stubborn bolt, his biceps flexing under the strain.

"You just loiter outside people's garages now?" he asks without turning.

"I make exceptions for guys who owe me gummy worms," you retort, referencing the other day at your place when he spilled your entire bag of sour Trolli's on the ground.

He finally glances up. There's a smudge of grease on his cheek and that tired grin he always throws your way when he's caught off guard.

"Then you better earn 'em."

You sit cross-legged on the concrete floor beside him. No invitation needed.

"You're gonna strip it," you say.

"I've got it," he mutters.

"You don't got it."

He shoots you a glare, but there's no real heat behind it. "You wanna try?"

You nudge him aside. "Move over, hotshot."

He huffs but scoots back, arms crossed as you take the wrench from him. You brace yourself, adjusting your grip, and twist. The bolt gives almost immediately.

Jacob stares.

"...Okay, yeah, that's bullshit."

You grin, tossing the wrench back to him. "Maybe you're just weak."

He catches it easily, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, I'm weak?"

"Mmhm."

He leans in closer and the air between you feels hotter. You're hyper aware of the way his gaze lingers on your face, the way his chest rises and falls just a little faster. Your pulse stutters and you can hear his pick up. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he leans back into himself and grabs the hem of his shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it onto a nearby toolbox. Sunlight streams through the open garage door, gilding his skin as he drags a hand over his brow, muscles shifting under the sheen of his sweat. Those are new.

You blink and you realize you're staring.

He hesitates, glancing at you. "Sorry, I should've asked first. Do you mind if I-?"

"No," you abruptly respond, maybe a little too quickly. "It's-it's fine. Hot. It's hot... out."

Jacob smirks, but there's something unreadable about his expression as he turns back to the car. You swallow hard, trying (and failing) not to stare. The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable, just charged.

"You remember when we got stuck on the side of the road in the middle of summer?" you ask, just to say something and break the silence.

Jacob snorts. "You passed out from heatstroke."

"I did not pass out. I was resting my eyes."

"You were snoring. On the side of the road."

You shove him and he laughs, shoulder bumping against yours. Your own laugh escapes, softer than his, and when you glance up, he's already looking at you. His smile doesn't fade so much as settle, something unbearably fond in the curve of it. Like your laughter isn't just sound but honey, the slow drip of something golden and sweet. Something worth savoring on his tongue.

--

You end up staying longer than you meant to.

The conversations start with harmless updates-school, your mom's new obsession with puzzles, the neighbor's cat that keeps trying to sneak into your room. Jacob nods along, humming in acknowledgment as he tightens a bolt, but his responses aren't just filler. He listens in that way of his, sharp and present, tossing in a question here and there like he's cataloging every detail.

He tells you about Billy's latest attempt to organize the shed, how he nearly dropped a toolbox on his own foot. He says it like it's nothing, but the way he smiles when he says Dad is soft around the edges. You'd always loved Billy-how he treated you like another kid, feeding you both saltine crackers until you groaned, scolding Jacob halfheartedly when he caught you two sneaking out late. And Jacob, for all his teasing, had a quiet adoration for his father he'd never say out loud.

You watch his hands as he works. There's something steady about them, even when the rest of him seems like it's working twice as hard to hold still. Your dad wasn't wrong when he joked about Jacob being the only one he'd trust around a sprinkler. There was something unfairly competent about him, like he could fix anything if he just willed it hard enough.

"Here." Jacob nudges a socket wrench into your palm without looking up. "You're not just here to sit pretty.

You scoff, stretching your spine (you'd been hunched beside him for an hour like some kind of gremlin). "When have I ever sat pretty?"

He doesn't answer, just smirks-that infuriating, knowing tilt of his mouth, like he's got a secret tucked behind his lips. You elbow him, then pretend to inspect the bike's engine with exaggerate focus, turning the wrench like you know exactly what you're doing, copying him.

"So," you drag out, poking at a loose valve. "How's the rest of life going?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"Y'know, like..." You tap the metal, clink clink. "Any super interesting secrets you've been keeping from me? Or how you've been dealing with my absence-which, obviously, was devastating for you. Or..." You grin. "Girls?"

Jacob freezes mid-turn, then slowly looks up at you, brow raised. "First off," he says, voice dry, "no secrets. You know I wouldn't keep any from you. Second, yeah, real tough without you. Had to find a new punching bag and everything." He flicks a grease-stained rag at you. "And no. Been too busy." A pause. "You?"

"No secrets here," you say lightly. "And not seeing you was no biggie, really." You snap the wrench playful. "And nope."

He snorts. "Liar."

"Prove it."

For a second, it feels like when you were kids again by daring each other and toeing the line. But then the sunlight shifts, painting the garage in a dimmer gold and Jacob leans back, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. You did a pretty good job at not staring for the past few hours, but your eyes slowly drift before snapping out of it quickly.

"Dinner?" he asks, like it's nothing.

You glance at your phone and realize the hours have slipped away like minutes. "I could eat."

There's no discussion, no plan, just the easy understanding that you'll figure it out together. You grab two of his jackets (both of which still smell like motor oil and the pine-scented soap Billy loves to buy), lock up the garage, and pile into his car. The windows stay cracked, letting in the cooling sunset air and the radio murmurs some old rock songs under the rumble of the engine.

Jacob drums his fingers on the steering wheel, quiet for once. But it's a good quiet. The kind that doesn't need filling.

--

Back at his place, you help unload the random assortment of things in the kitchen-barbecue-flavored Pringles, cheddar cheese, and, most importantly, gummy worms, along with a few other necessities. Billy's out, probably at Charlie Swan's or fishing with one of the other dads. The house is quiet in a way that doesn't feel empty.

"We're healthy, huh," you joke, eyeing the scattered lineup of junk food across the counter.

"I'm very self-sufficient," Jacob says. "I'll cook something up."

"Right," you reply, deadpan. "With your two whole dishes: scrambled eggs and grilled cheese."

"Don't knock the classics," he shoots back, pouting slightly as he starts pulling out a pan and whatever kitchen gadget he can fish out of the drawers.

You put a movie on in the background before joining him to help concoct whatever his limited cooking skills can manage, keeping a close eye on him to make sure he doesn't burn the place down. The TV's volume is up, but neither of you really watches. You talk over it, and the clatter from the kitchen practically drowns it out anyway.

Once the chaos ends-and you both survive-you grab your plates: triangle-cut grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, a side of Pringles, two cups of water, and the gummy worms. You set everything down on the coffee table and settle into the couch, finally ready to pay attention to the movie.

Somewhere between finishing the second half of your grilled cheese and the third time the remote glitches, you catch Jacob watching you from the corner of your eye.

"What?" you ask, looking over at him.

He shakes his head. "Nothing."

You squint at him, but he doesn't offer more. Instead, he leans back on the couch and tosses a pillow lazily in your direction.

"I'm just saying," he adds after a second, "you're easy to be around."

It's casual. Simple. But the way he says it lands heavier than it should.

You pause, just long enough that he notices. Then you nod, smiling, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"You too."

And you mean it.

--

When you leave, he walks you to the door. The porch light flickers as he opens it. Your mom's parked nearby-Jacob offered to drive you back, but you felt bad about how much he's been driving you around lately, so you called her instead.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asks, leaning on the frame.

"Is this a standing appointment now?"

"Guess so."

You smile, step down the stairs, and walk toward the car. You don't look back, but you can feel him watching until you slide into the passenger seat.

When you get home, your phone buzzes once.

Jacob: Gummy worms were a good call