Brian woke up with his faced mashed into a pillow and the sheets twisted around his hips. He felt pretty good. Well-fucked good. He yawned and scratched at his chest, stumbling out of bed to pull on a pair of too-big Bermudas that barely stayed on his ass.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and wandered into the kitchen. There was a note stuck to the ancient refrigerator, held in place with a magnet shaped like a Plymouth Cricket.
The note just said: Garage. D.
Brian squinted at the sun outside the dirty window, decided it was noon somewhere and close enough for Baja, and pulled a couple of Coronas from the refrigerator. He popped the caps on the counter and went out to the garage barefoot.
Dom was leaning over an engine block, the top of his coveralls hanging loose at his waist. A bead of sweat slipped down Dom's back.
"Hey," Brian said, handing him a beer.
Dom looked at him for a long moment before taking it, his eyes dark and shuttered. "Thanks."
A muscle leapt in Dom's jaw as Brian took a long swallow. He was watching Brian out of the corner of his eye as he drank, shoulders tense, like Dom maybe was expecting him to do something weird and girly like talk about his feelings or demand that Dom make an honest man out of him.
Brian cleared his throat. Dom twitched.
"Anything I can do?" Brian asked, gesturing at the engine block with his beer.
Dom unclenched a little and nodded at the driveway. "Vocho could use new spark plugs."
Brian glanced over his shoulder. There was a Beetle parked just outside the garage. "I'm on it."
He waited for Dom to turn back to the engine block before he goosed him.