Can You fix My Life?

The garage smelled of oil, rubber, and sunbaked steel. Dust swirled in the heavy summer air, caught in shafts of light slanting through the half-open bay doors. The place was neat in its own way, tools hanging with military precision along pegboards, each gleaming as if ready for battle. Somewhere outside, cicadas droned without end, their chorus merging with the ticking sound of a cooling engine.

Claire hesitated just inside the doorway, one hand gripping the strap of her purse as though it might anchor her in this unfamiliar place. She wasn’t used to garages. She had a regular shop she trusted, but they’d been booked solid, and her neighbor had suggested this one. He’s good, really good, the neighbor had said, but don’t be surprised if he tells you things you didn’t ask for.

Now she understood.

Ethan Cross wasn’t like any mechanic she’d ever met. He stood before her sedan as though it were alive, listening. His hand rested lightly on the fender, eyes half-closed, head tilted. He looked less like a mechanic and more like someone reading a pulse.

Claire shifted uneasily. “So… what’s wrong with it?”

Ethan opened his eyes, studying the car one last time before glancing at her. “Your car isn’t broken,” he said. His voice was calm, unhurried, with a certainty that made her defensive. “It’s just bound up. Too much friction where it doesn’t belong.” Then, with a faint smile: “Happens to machines. Happens to people, too.”

Claire frowned. “I didn’t come here for a metaphor. I just need it running. I’ve got work in the morning.”

He only nodded, as if her impatience didn’t touch him. Picking up a wrench, Ethan leaned into the engine bay. His movements were efficient but strangely graceful. He adjusted a hose here, tapped a bolt there, listening after each adjustment as though waiting for the car’s response. He hummed under his breath, a low tune that seemed to settle the air around him.

Claire tried to distract herself by examining the garage. Everything was in order. An old calendar of classic cars hung above a desk, a stack of tires in the corner, a worn leather stool. Yet her attention kept returning to him. There was something unusual about his calm, the way he worked, as if time itself bent to his rhythm.

Finally, Ethan closed the hood with a satisfying thump. He turned the key, and the engine roared smoothly, the rattle gone. It purred like it had been waiting for this moment.

“She’s good to go,” Ethan said, handing her the keys. Then, softer, with a weight she couldn’t explain: “And so are you.”

Claire blinked, startled. For a moment she thought she’d misheard. But no, his gaze was steady, his tone, deliberate.

Heat rose in her cheeks. She muttered a hurried “thank you” and walked out quickly, her heels clicking sharply on the concrete. She didn’t look back.

Yet as she drove away, the engine humming beneath her, she realized she felt… different. Not just relieved the car was fixed, but unsettled in some deeper way. Ethan’s words clung to her like the humidity outside: So are you.

The afternoon was sweltering a few days later, when Claire’s car shuddered on the highway, steam curling up from the hood. She cursed, guided it to the shoulder, and sat gripping the wheel, sweat sticking her blouse to her back. She didn’t want to call him, but she knew she had to.

Half an hour later, the car limped back into Ethan’s garage. He emerged from the back, wiping his hands on his shop towel, calm as ever.

“Back already?” he asked. No mockery, just quiet amusement.

Claire slammed her door, frustration boiling over. “It overheated. Whatever you did last time didn’t fix it.”

Ethan tilted his head, examining the car with quiet assurance. “The part I adjusted held fine. But the coolant is really low. Did you top it off like I suggested?”

She faltered. She remembered his words, but she hadn’t bothered. “No. I don’t usually pay attention to that stuff.”

He crouched by the radiator, testing it gently. “Where we place our attention determines how long things last. Cars. Hearts. Lives.” He looked up at her. “Ignore what matters, and the engine runs dry.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “I didn’t come here for one of your lessons.”

“Understood,” Ethan said. He poured fresh coolant with a steady movement. But as he worked, his voice carried on, low but clear. “Every moment, we choose where our energy goes. Fear and neglect drain it. Love and care refill it. Same with a radiator. Neglect it, and it steams out. Care for it, and it does what it’s designed for.”

Claire pressed her lips together. She wanted to dismiss him, but his words settled in her chest like hot coals, impossible to ignore.

When he shut the hood, he gestured. “Try her.”

The engine started smoothly. The gauge held steady. Relief washed over her, though she wouldn’t admit it out loud.

As she signed the invoice, she caught his eyes. “Do you really believe all that? About energy and love?”

“I don’t just believe it,” Ethan said quietly. “I live it.”

Her fingers brushed his as she handed back the pen, and the contact lingered longer than it should have. Claire left in silence, but her thoughts wouldn’t quiet. He had fixed her car again, but why did she feel like he was fixing something else, too?

A week later, her car didn’t need anything—but Claire found herself pulling into the garage anyway. She told herself it was time for an oil change. Truthfully, she just wanted to see him.

Ethan was bent over a truck, sleeves rolled, grease streaked across his arms. When he looked up, he smiled like he’d been expecting her.

“Back again?”

“Oil change,” she said quickly, too quickly.

He guided her car into the bay and slid beneath it with practiced ease. The silence was thick, broken only by the clink of his tools. Claire shifted, then finally spoke.

“Do you always talk like that?”

“Like what?” His voice came muffled from under the car.

“Like you’re fixing people while you fix their cars.”

He chuckled, rolling out with a wrench in hand. “I don’t try to. I just listen. Machines carry echoes of their owners. Their strain tells me more than their miles.”

She hesitated. “So… what does mine say?”

Ethan studied her. His gaze was steady but not invasive. “That you’ve been running hot for too long. Carrying more weight than you admit. But beneath it, you’re strong.”

Her throat tightened. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he admitted gently. “But I know what it looks like when someone forgets where their energy is going.”

Claire looked away, blinking hard. She hadn’t expected a garage visit to feel like confession.

When the oil change was done, he handed her the receipt. Their fingers brushed again—deliberate this time. Claire met his eyes, and for a long moment, neither looked away.

Driving home, she knew she hadn’t come for an oil change. She had come for him.

On a black and empty night, Claire’s headlights flickered, sputtered, and died. Darkness swallowed the road. Her heart thudded with panic, and without thinking, she called Ethan.

“Stay where you are,” he said. “I’ll come.”

Twenty minutes later, his truck appeared, headlights bright in the void. Relief flooded her chest.

He worked quietly, flashlight beam dancing across the hood. “Blown fuse,” he murmured. “Simple fix.”

Claire hugged her arms against the night air. “Why does my car keep breaking down when….” She stopped herself. When I need you.

Ethan glanced up, smile faint. “Breakdowns don’t always mean something’s wrong. Sometimes they remind us to stop. To let someone help.”

Her breath caught. “And tonight?” she whispered. “What’s the reminder?”

He closed the hood, meeting her gaze. “Don’t dim your own light. You’ve believed in your limits so long you’ve forgotten your power. The darkness isn’t real—it’s just what you’ve agreed to see.”

His words hit her harder than the failure of her headlights. For a moment she felt like he had spoken straight into her soul.

When the lights blazed back to life, she swore something inside her had been rekindled too.

Ethan lingered by her door. “Engines can be rebuilt. So can people. But only if they decide they’re worth it.”

Claire’s throat tightened. She nodded, unable to speak.

Weeks later, her car was running perfectly when she pulled into the garage. She wasn’t here for a repair.

Ethan was wiping down a wrench when he saw her. “No rattles, no smoke, no problem?”

Claire smiled faintly. “No problems. I just came to thank you.”

“For fixing your car?”

“For more than taking care of my car.” She hesitated, then let the words spill. “You’ve made me see things differently. About myself. About how I’ve been living.”

Ethan leaned against the bench, quiet as ever. “The car was just the doorway. You walked through.”

Her chest tightened. She didn’t know what to call him—a mechanic, a philosopher, or something else entirely, but she knew he had left a mark.

When she drove away, sunlight spilled across the road. Her engine felt steady and sure, but what mattered was the quiet knowing now streaming from within her.