Chapter Text
You’d never thought you’d be the semi-proud owner of anything bigger than a sedan, but here you are. You’re fairly certain the air conditioner kicked out sometime back in the 80s, and the hand-rolled windows are doing little to solve that issue. Even with both down and fully open, all you’ve managed to do is create a wind-tunnel for the heat and humidity to blast through. The radio croaks out some staticky, broken thing that might be a rock song. You actually aren’t sure, but it’s better than the only other station the thing sort of picks up- which was broadcasting a depressing economic readout when you’d dared to settle there for more than a second.
The cab smells faintly of old smoke and curdled milk. The boxes containing your life are stacked in the backseat and strapped down in the bed of the truck, courtesy of the same old farmer who had asked for a hundred bucks in return for the ‘piece of shit’ rusting in his barn lot. The heat clings to you—thick, sticky, unbothered by the halfhearted gusts of air barreling through the cab. The cardboard edges of the nearest box dig into the back of your seat every time you shift.
The road into town stretches long and wavering ahead of you, the pavement glimmering with heat mirages that rise and fade with each mile. Telephone poles tick by in slow rhythm, leaning toward the coastline as though the salt air has bent them permanently off-center. The ocean flashes in glimpses to your left—flat gray-blue under a film of haze, endless in a way that makes your chest ache. The closer you get, the more you can smell it: briny and metallic, threaded through with the faint, sweet rot of kelp drying on rocks.
The car fights you every inch of the way, coughing as you downshift, the wheel vibrating beneath your hands. You mutter a plea, a promise, a threat, as though coaxing the machine along might make a difference. You’re so close now—just the outskirts of town and the half-baked fantasy of pulling into your cousin’s driveway without incident. Just a few more minutes of pretending you’ve got this restart under control.
But then the radio fizzles into silence, giving up the ghost mid-verse. Two seconds later, the engine shudders once, twice, and dies. The sudden absence of noise is almost violent. You lurch forward with the loss of momentum, dragging the wheel to keep from drifting into the other lane, and the car coasts gracelessly to the shoulder before surrendering completely. The only sounds left are the cicadas screaming from the ditch grass, the distant crash of waves against rock, and the slow tick of cooling metal beneath the hood.
For a moment, you just stay there, one hand locked on the wheel, forehead pressed against the heel of one palm, heat prickling at your scalp. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You’d pictured arriving in one piece, parking neatly in the drive, letting your cousin give you a welcome hug and say, see, I told you this place was waiting for you. Instead, you’re stranded just shy of the town line, boxed-up life in the backseat, sweat dripping down your spine, and no backup plan beyond your own stubborn will.
When you finally shove the gear into park and climb out, the door hinge groans loud enough to echo and the heat slaps at you like punishment. The air shimmers above the blacktop. You press both palms to the hood, wincing as the sun-baked metal sears your skin, and lean there with your eyes closed, breathing through the sting. Somewhere ahead, the faint low hum of traffic promises civilization. But between you and it stretches an empty strip of road, and for the first time since you started driving, you feel its distance.
You're going to have to call your cousin. There's no other solution. Your cousin, and a tow truck.
That’s when you hear it: low, throaty, steady. Not a car at all. A motorcycle, eating up the road behind you.
The sound grows louder until it rolls through you in a steady thrum that rattles your ribs. When you look up, it’s already there—cresting the rise behind you, chrome winking against the haze. The bike moves like it owns the road, the rider leaning with it as though the two of them share a spine.
He slows when he spots you and the carcass of your truck on the shoulder, the engine dropping into a husky idle that swallows the cicadas before cutting out entirely. Gravel crunches under his tires as he kicks the stand and swings one long leg over, the movement fluid in a way that makes it obvious he’s done it a thousand times. Boots land solid against the asphalt, shoulders shifting beneath the leather jacket molded to his frame.
For a beat, he’s faceless, the dark visor turning him into something mythic—tall, broad, the outline of trouble. Then his hands lift, practiced and unhurried. The strap comes loose. The helmet pulls free.
Dark hair falls damp across his forehead, flattened and then mussed as he shakes it back. His features catch sharp in the afternoon light, symmetrical and startling. He looks like he belongs on a movie poster, not pulling up next to your overheated truck on a back road.
And God, he looks like trouble. Trouble with the kind of face that could wreck hearts with a glance. The sort of trouble you don’t have the energy or desire to deal with.
“You alright?” His voice is low, smooth—too smooth—and makes you more than certain he has wrecked hearts before.
You nod too quickly, startled by both him and yourself, pulling your hands away from the truck hood to wipe them against your pants as though that’ll rub off the sting of the heat.
“Uh, yeah,” you manage, voice thin with the effort of sounding normal. “Just… not having the best time.”
He studies you for a moment—dark eyes flicking from your face to the truck, then back again.
“Want me to take a look?” he asks finally.
You hesitate, teeth catching your lower lip. You’re out here, alone with a large man in leather. But there’s no edge in his tone, no hint of impatience or judgment. Just steady calm, like whether you say yes or no makes no difference to his ego.
“…Yeah,” you say at last, stepping back from the hood. “If you don’t mind.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, not cocky, just easy. He nods once, setting the helmet down.
“Don’t mind at all,” he says, peeling off his riding gloves. “I’m a mechanic. Comes with the territory.”
And somehow, hearing it put that simply—the problem, the solution, no strings—lets a knot in your chest loosen, just a little.
The man digs out a pair of aviators, sliding them on as he steps up beside you. The effect is maddeningly predictable—leather, engine grease, and now shades.
He pauses before stepping toward the hood, fingers tugging at the zipper of his jacket. With an easy roll of his shoulders, he shrugs out of the leather, folding it once before setting it across the seat of his bike. Underneath he’s in a white t-shirt, the fabric clinging damp against his chest and shoulders, already marked by patches of sweat. Practical. Unbothered. As if peeling out of half a layer of armor in the swelter means nothing.
You tell yourself you’re only noticing because the heat has you half-delirious.
He brushes past you only when you move aside, one hand skimming the fender as though testing the warmth. Then he props the hood open, leaning in with an ease that tells you he’s done this more times than you’ve changed your oil.
You stand back, arms folded tight across your chest—not because you don’t want the help, but because you’re bone-tired, sweat sticking your shirt to your spine, and very aware you’re stranded on the side of the road with a stranger. Your pulse thrums a little too fast, heat or nerves or both.
“Long trip?” he asks, voice muffled as he leans over the engine. There’s the click of metal as he shifts something.
“Five hours,” you answer, sharper than you mean to. The words rasp out like gravel.
He doesn’t take offense, just hums low in his throat, the sound swallowed by the cicadas. “Figures. Belt’s loose. Battery’s hanging on, but she’s not happy about it.”
There’s a clatter as he adjusts something you don’t recognize, and then he straightens, forearm dragging across his brow before settling on the edge of the hood. He turns the full weight of his attention on you again, unreadable behind the dark lenses.
“She’ll start for now,” he says. “But you’ll need a proper fix soon. Lucky for you, there’s a shop in town.”
His mouth ticks up, like he knows something you don’t.
You shift your weight, wiping a streak of sweat from your temple with the back of your wrist. “Where’s that at?”
He straightens, sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough for you to catch the glint of something warm his eyes. “Mine,” he answers simply. “Jeong’s Auto. Right off Main.”
Your stomach tightens. Of course. Motorcycle, leather, grease under his nails—and now the mechanic card too. It feels almost cliché, except the way he says it isn’t cocky, just… straightforward.
He closes the hood with a firm thud, resting his hand there for a beat before turning back toward you. “I can get her running again,” he continues, tone shifting into something undeniably professional. “But I’ll be straight with you—the truck’s old. Real old. I can patch it up, replace what’s failing, keep her moving. But if you’re planning to rely on it long-term?” He shakes his head once. “Might be worth looking at something newer. Safer.”
You cross your arms tighter, the words pricking at you even though you know he’s not wrong. He isn’t trying to sell you anything—you can hear it in the evenness of his voice—but exhaustion makes your chest ache anyway.
He seems to catch that, because his next words soften, a little less mechanic and a little more man. “Either way, it’s your call. I’ll do what I can.”
You give him a tired nod.
“Thanks. Sorry to—”
He’s already shaking his head, one hand lifting slightly like he can bat the words away before they even land.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “This wasn’t your fault. Shit happens.”
It’s said so simply, so matter-of-fact, that you almost don’t know what to do with it. You’re used to blame sticking—used to explaining yourself to ease someone else’s irritation. But he isn’t irritated. He’s just standing there in the heat with grease on his fingers and sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, looking at your dead truck like it’s nothing more than a problem to solve.
For the first time since the engine gave out, your throat loosens.
“Okay. Thanks, then. Um—”
He winces a little, as though just realizing he never introduced himself. “Yunho.”
The name settles between you, solid and unpretentious. He wipes a palm against his thigh before offering it out, grease-stained and steady.
You hesitate only a heartbeat before taking it, your fingers dwarfed in his grip. His hand is warm—too warm in the swelter, but his shake is firm without being pushy, brief without being dismissive.
You manage to introduce yourself in turn, wariness settling into something almost relieved in the face of a normal human interaction after hours of being alone on the road.
Yunho nods once, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “Good to meet you.” He glances back at the truck, then gestures toward the driver’s side. “Go on—try it now. Should start.”
You climb back in, the vinyl seat scorching against the backs of your thighs through your clothes, and twist the key. For a breathless second you expect the same dead silence as before—then the engine sputters, coughs, and finally growls back to life.
Through the windshield, Yunho tips his chin in quiet satisfaction, like the sound was never in doubt. He steps back as you climb out again, pulling his jacket and gloves back on.
“Where you headed?” he asks, tone still easy, like it’s the most natural question in the world.
You give him the address, brushing your palms against your thighs to keep from fidgeting.
His mouth ticks up again, more noticeable this time. “Figured. You’re the cousin, then. She’s been talking you up.”
The words catch you off guard. After hours alone on the road, sweat and nerves boiling you raw, the idea that someone here already knows your name makes your chest loosen in a way the restarted engine hadn’t quite managed.
“I can guide you in,” Yunho adds, jerking his chin toward town. “No sense risking it stalling again before you get there.”
You glance toward town, the shimmer of heat rising off the asphalt like a mirage. It’s tempting to refuse, to insist you can handle it, but your nerves are too frayed and your truck too stubborn.
“…Alright,” you say at last.
“Good.” Yunho slips his helmet back on, visor snapping down with a clean click before he swings onto the bike. The engine roars to life, low and steady, and he nods once toward the road ahead.
Trouble, you remind yourself as you climb back into the driver’s seat. He has to be. Because no one who isn’t could be that confident.
The ride into town feels longer than it should, your truck grumbling in protest with every gear shift. Yunho keeps a steady pace just ahead of you, the growl of his bike carrying back through the humid air. His shoulders are broad and certain in the leather, helmet visor catching the sun every time the road curves. All you have to do is follow.
The closer you get to town, the more the landscape shifts—cottages tucked into dunes, clapboard houses with salt-worn paint, shop signs painted in cheerful colors. People wave as Yunho passes: a man outside the hardware store lifting two fingers from his coffee, a pair of kids on bikes who light up like he’s some kind of superhero on patrol. He tips his chin in return, casual, like it’s just part of his route.
At one intersection, another bike slides in alongside him, exhaust popping loud enough to make your truck shudder. The rider glances at Yunho, then at you, and grins before gesturing down the road like he’s offering directions Yunho clearly doesn’t need.
A second pulls up from the other side not long after, sleeker and quicker, visor flicked up just enough for you to catch the flash of a smirk. He points dramatically deeper into town as if it takes more than one man on a motorcycle to guide a weary newcomer down Main Street.
Yunho doesn’t rise to it. Just shakes his head once, throttles forward, and lets them fall into a loose pack around him—two shadows flanking him like this really is an escort into town.
By the time your cousin’s house comes into view, your pulse has finally slowed. Yunho coasts ahead to make sure you find the right drive, then edges his bike aside as you turn in.
You shift into park, engine rattling one last time before going quiet. Yunho glances back once, lifts a hand in a simple wave, and without waiting for thanks, rolls back out onto the street. His tail light blinks once, red against the afternoon haze, before he disappears around the bend with the two others.
Trouble, you remind yourself again. The kind that leaves as soon as he knows you’re safe.
The house still smells faintly of garlic and herbs, the kind of comfort-food warmth that clings long after the plates have been cleared. Outside, the steady hum of crickets has replaced the earlier shrill of cicadas, muffled by the sea breeze drifting through the cracked window. The truck with its load of boxes is crammed haphazardly into the garage, a mess you’ll deal with tomorrow. For now, you’re sunk deep into your cousin’s couch with a glass of wine in hand, the cushions swallowing you whole in a way the cracked vinyl seat of the truck never could.
Mara kicks off her slippers and drops into the armchair opposite you, tucking her legs beneath her in one easy motion. Her hair is piled up in a messy knot, her shirt soft with wear, safe and warm in a way you didn’t realize you needed until you arrived.
She lifts her own glass in a mock toast. “To surviving the drive.”
You huff a laugh and clink the rim of yours against hers. “Barely.”
Mara smirks over the edge as she takes a sip. “That truck looked like it belonged in a scrapyard when you rolled up. I’m impressed it made it five miles, let alone five hours.”
“Trust me,” you mutter, “so am I.”
She grins at that, but the humor fades as her gaze lingers on you—sharp, assessing. Mara has never been one for small talk when it matters.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says at last, quiet but steady.
The knot in your chest loosens again, the one that had cinched tight somewhere between your old apartment and this driveway. You take another sip of wine, then another, before managing, “I’m glad I left.”
Her smile is quick and fierce, equal parts relief and vindication. “About damn time. He kept you small, and you’ve never been small.”
Heat stings behind your eyes before you can stop it. You look down at your glass, at the swirl of red catching the lamplight. “It took me too long to see it.”
“You stayed long enough to prove a point,” Mara says, leaning forward to rest her glass on the table with a soft clink. Her tone sharpens just enough to make your chest ache. “You tried. You gave him every chance to be who he promised he was. That’s not weakness. That’s generosity. And he wasted it.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “I’m not sure about that. I practically ran, Mara-“
“And now you’re here.” She cuts in gently but firmly. “And here, you get to decide what you want. No one else gets to tell you that you’re asking for too much. Or that you should be grateful for less.”
Her words land hard, heavier than you expected. You hadn’t told her everything—not the shouting matches that dissolved into tears, not the quiet manipulations that stretched months past the breakup, not the texts that started with please and ended with you’ll regret this. But she sees enough. Maybe she’s always seen more than you’ve admitted.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward or heavy. It’s companionable, the kind that comes only with years of knowing someone, of late-night phone calls and unsent texts and the unshakable tether of family.
Mara finally sits back again, reclaiming her glass. Her grin returns, sharp as a blade and just as protective. “Tomorrow we get you settled in your own space. Tonight you get a couch, wine, and the satisfaction of knowing your ex can eat his heart out picturing you anywhere but with him.”
That pulls a real laugh from you, rough but genuine, and Mara beams like she’s been waiting months to hear it.
She takes another sip, then points the rim of her glass at you. “And Monday you start at the center, right?”
“Mmhm.” You nod, rolling the stem of your own glass between your fingers. “They wanted me this week, but I asked for a few days to settle first.”
“Good,” Mara says, decisive in the way she always is when it comes to your life. “You need the breathing room. New town, new job—you don’t have to prove anything to anyone but yourself. The ocean’ll still be there Monday.”
And there it was—the other reason you’d packed up and driven five hours to the coast. Not just Mara, though she had always been the safety net waiting for you to let go. But the chance to finally put that Marine Biology degree to use, to step into the Marine Research Center you’d heard about for years in her calls and emails. Real work. Real purpose. Not just coasting through life with someone else’s shadow steering your choices.
Mara tips back the last of her wine, eyes gleaming over the rim of her glass. “So…” she drawls, setting it down with deliberate care. “Are we stopping by the shop tomorrow?”
You blink. “The shop?”
Her grin turns wicked, the kind you’ve seen her use on rowdy bar regulars when she’s about to wreck them at pool. “Mmhm. Yunho’s. Can’t waste an excuse to ogle attractive men when they’re sweaty and in their element.”
You groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “Mara.”
“What?” She spreads her hands, mock-innocent. “I’m just saying. Man’s built like a brick wall and good with his hands. He's practically a walking public service.”
You bury your face in your glass, heat prickling your cheeks that has nothing to do with the wine.
“I am so not ready for that.”
She scoffs, loud and unbothered. “Babe, I’m not saying you have to date him—though yes, please. But, there’s nothing wrong with appreciating without touching.”
You peek at her over the rim, trying to glare but mostly failing. “You’ve always been shameless.”
“Damn right.” Mara stretches out in her chair like a queen settling into her throne, completely at ease. “Running a bar full of half-drunk fishermen? You learn fast that looking is free, touching costs extra, and knowing where to draw the line is what keeps you in charge.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. Mara’s always had that effect—cutting through your worst moods with the force of her blunt honesty.
She softens just a little. “You had two years of being told to shrink. A little shameless appreciation might be exactly what you need.”
“He looks like trouble,” you say finally, amused but exasperated.
“Trouble? Yunho?” Mara barks out a laugh. “No. Now his co-owner, Mingi, maybe. That one’s got the gremlin gene.”
You shake your head, hiding your smile behind the rim of your glass. “You can’t just call someone a gremlin.”
“Oh, I can. And I do. Wait ‘til you meet him—you’ll see what I mean.” She tips her glass at you, eyes dancing. “But Yunho? No, babe. He’s the opposite of trouble. That man’s solid as they come.”
You roll your eyes, but the smile lingers. Mara just grins into her glass, satisfied, and the conversation slips into easier channels as the bottle dwindles between you.
She talks about the town the way only a local can—half affection, half exasperation. How the fishermen swear the catch is worse every season but still drag in enough to keep the docks busy. How the high school football team hasn’t won a championship in twenty years but still packs the stands every Friday night. How the best coffee in town comes from a little café that closes at three sharp, no exceptions.
You sip and listen, the cadence of her voice more comforting than the details themselves. After hours of highway static and your own restless thoughts, it’s grounding to hear the small things—the rhythm of a place you might actually belong to.
At some point you realize you’ve slouched low into the couch, your empty glass dangling from loose fingers. Sleep clings to you, heavy and insistent, tugging you under.
Mara notices, of course. She plucks the glass from your hand and sets it on the table, shaking her head with fond amusement. “Lightweight.”
You mumble something in reply, too far gone to make it coherent. She tosses a throw blanket over you before padding off toward the kitchen, her voice floating back, soft but certain.
“Get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll start fresh.”
The last thing you register is the faint hum of the refrigerator, the salt-heavy air drifting through the window, and the simple fact that—for the first time in a long time—you feel safe enough to sleep without worry.