Sanctuary of the Heart

The scent of oil and metal always takes me back to him. It's a stark contrast to the fresh air and earthy scents of the sanctuary, the place where I feel most at home. But even now, years later, that mechanical smell can transport me in an instant.

I was sixteen, a bundle of nerves and teenage anxiety, driving my beat-up Ford Falcon into my dad's auto shop. The engine was sputtering, coughing its last breaths, and I was pretty sure I was about to be grounded for life. My dad, a man of few words and even fewer shows of affection, had always emphasized the importance of self-reliance, but the Falcon was beyond my meager attempts at repair.

What I definitely didn't expect was Malcom. He emerged from beneath a jacked-up truck, his movements fluid and confident, even with grease smeared across his cheek. He had this wide, disarming grin that seemed to light up the dim shop, chasing away some of the shadows. My heart did this weird fluttery thing, a sensation that was both exciting and incredibly intimidating. There was an undeniable spark between us, a pull that I couldn't explain, even then.