PitBabe Cast: Imagines

AlanJeff: My Clumsy Sweety

Alan sat alone in his office, the low hum of the garage machinery buzzing like an uninvited guest in his mind. The walls were littered with grease stains, remnants of years spent on cars that had long since left his care. Tools were scattered across the workbenches, each one a silent reminder of the hours spent fixing things that had broken—machines that could be mended, unlike his own heart. The smell of oil hung in the air, familiar but stale now. It had once comforted him, that scent reminded him of his past, of his lover's voice in the background, of laughter shared over late-night repairs.

But today, it felt like a tomb. The once-vibrant space now felt like a hollow shell of what it had been.

The garage had been the one thing left after everything had been torn from him. Three years. The grief had etched itself into his bones, raw and unforgiving, the absence of his lover as glaring as the fluorescent lights above him. He could still remember every detail of the man who had been his everything—the way he smiled, his contagious laugh, the warmth of his touch.

It still felt fresh, like the pain had been seared into him the day it happened.

Alan's gaze drifted over the room, his fingers absently tapping against the edge of his desk. Success. He had built something out of this place. A business that employed others, that provided for a community, but it was all a lie, wasn't it? Without them, without him, none of it made sense. The world continued turning outside those garage doors, but inside, Alan sat still. The noise of the outside world—of progress, of life—felt distant, muffled. The garage had become a hiding place for him. A place to bury everything that once meant something.

The bell above the door jingled, the sound so foreign in the silence of his thoughts that it startled him. Alan didn't even look up. Another applicant. Another face that would blend into the background, forgotten as soon as they left. This was routine. The world moved on; he retreated into the shadows. It was easier that way.

"Excuse me?" a voice broke through the haze of his thoughts.

It was hesitant, uncertain, and for a moment, it caught him off guard. Something in that voice. Something familiar. He swallowed, pushing the sudden tightening in his chest aside, unwilling to acknowledge the memory stirring within him.

"I'm Jeff," the voice continued, softer now but no less determined. "I'm here about the mechanic position."

Alan's eyes flickered to the door, almost against his will. He didn't want to look, didn't want to give in to the curiosity gnawing at him, but there was something magnetic about the voice—something that made his heart ache in a way he hadn't felt in years.

When he finally looked, his breath hitched.

Jeff wasn't what he had expected. The young man standing in the doorway was barely out of his twenties, with messy dark hair falling into his eyes. He wore an oversized jacket, as though he hadn't yet figured out how to dress for the job. His posture was slouched, his hands gripping the strap of a worn bag like it was his lifeline. He looked fragile, vulnerable. His presence was like a spark in the dimness of the room.

But it wasn't just that. There was something about him—something in the way his shoulders hunched, something in the uncertainty of his eyes—that made Alan's heart skip. It was so familiar. It reminded him of someone he had loved. Someone who had walked through that same door years ago with the same nervous energy.

For a brief moment, Alan's world tilted. He couldn't breathe.

He clenched his fists under the desk. No, he couldn't do this. Not again.

"Do you know anything about cars?" Alan's voice was colder than he intended, a sharp edge to keep him distant. To keep the memories at bay.

Jeff shifted awkwardly on his feet, the nervousness rolling off him in waves. "I...I've always been fascinated by engines," he said, his voice quiet but earnest, though tinged with a certain vulnerability. "But I'm not a professional. I just...really want to learn."