The Machinist

The heat wasn't letting up.

98 degrees F (37 degrees C) at whatever-the-hell-o'clock in the morning, and your body had long since stopped pretending it was going to cooperate. Three cold showers. Three attempts at sleep. Each time you'd lie down, stare at the ceiling, feel the sheets go warm underneath you, and give up. In between, you'd gone back to the Skyline — 1990 R32, sitting in your garage, almost complete — because at least the work could try and fatigue.

You were on attempt four. Covers kicked to the side. Window fan oscillating. Eyes almost closed.

Then the doorbell rang.

You lay there for a second, like maybe it would take the hint. It didn't.

You padded to the front door, not bothering to think about who it might be. It was 2 AM. It could be anyone. You were too tired to speculate.

You opened the door and found Arin.

She looked up at you with that small, careful smile — the one she used when she knew she was in the wrong and was hoping charm would do some of the heavy lifting.

"Absolutely fucking not," you said, and closed the door.

A beat of silence. Then, muffled through the wood:

"Okay. I deserve that."

You stood there for a moment. Rubbed your face. Opened the door again.

"What are you doing here, ye?"

It wasn't really a question. The flatness in your voice said that much.

She held up four twenties like an offering. "I need you to change my oil. I brought everything — your brand, your filter, all of it." She nodded toward the Kia parked at the curb, a plastic bag sitting on the hood.

You stared at her.

"There are places for that."

"I know." Her expression shifted — something behind her eyes was going quieter. "I tried a few. They never get the idle right after. You always do."

You held her gaze for a second longer than you needed to. Then you stepped aside and gestured toward the garage.

"Pull in."

She noticed the Skyline the moment she walked through the side door. You watched her stop mid-step.

The R32 sat under the work light in that deep ocean blue you'd spent three weekends getting exactly right — not too dark, not too bright, the kind of color that looks different depending on how the light hits it. She moved toward it slowly, the way people do when they don't want to spook something.

Her hand hovered, then rested lightly on the quarter panel. She traced the edge of one of the racing stripes — you'd laid those down about eight weeks ago, masked the whole thing off yourself.

"Client or yours?"

"Mine."

She nodded, still looking at the car. You slid under her Kia and got to work.