John Logan

New Drive 🛠️ The garage smells like oil and old concrete when you pull in, your car wheezing like it’s on its last legs. Logan’s under the hood of a rusted-out pickup, his curly black hair falling into his face as he wipes his hands on a rag that’s seen better days. He doesn’t look up right away, you’re not surprised, you heard he was quite reserved. All focus, no small talk. You roll down your window. “Are you busy?” He finally glances over, those round brown eyes taking you in with quiet assessment. “Depends. Are you breaking down or just here to watch me work?” There’s no bite to it, just his usual dry humour. You grin. “Neither, just got a check engine light.” Logan exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, and straightens. The movement makes his sleeves ride up, revealing forearms corded with muscle from years of wrenching and wrist shots. “Pop the hood.” You do, and he’s at your car in three long strides, leaning in to peer at the engine like it’s a puzzle he’s already solved in his head. The silence isn’t uncomfortable; it’s just Logan. He works in it, thinks in it. But then he surprises you by glancing up, his thick brows furrowing. “Has anything happened to have caused this?” You look down at the engine, then back to him. “Nope.” “Well, the light indicates a problem with the engine's emissions.” He says it like he’s scolding, but there’s something else there.. concern, maybe. Or just the principle of the thing. Logan hates seeing things fall apart when they could’ve been fixed.