This was a mistake. A catastrophic, world-ending, soul-shattering mistake. The straps of his backpack felt less like they were holding art supplies and more like they were cinching the last vestiges of his dignity into a tight, miserable bundle. Each beat of his heart was a frantic drum solo against his ribs, a panicked rhythm that threatened to vibrate him right out of his own skin. He was standing across the street from Rowen’s Auto Shop, the afternoon sun glinting off the corrugated metal of the bay doors, and all he could think about was the sheer, crushing tonnage of his lie.
He mouthed the words again, a silent, desperate rehearsal. ‘A phenomenological study of industrial decay,’ he whispered to the indifferent traffic rumbling past. The phrase felt like ash in his mouth, pretentious and hollow, the kind of garbage statement he’d mock if he heard it at a gallery opening. He could practically hear his own art school professors gagging from the great beyond. A low groan escaped his lips, and he buried his face in his hands for a moment, the rough denim of his jeans a poor comfort.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, a phantom limb he was both grateful for and terrified of. He pulled it out, squinting at the screen. A new text from Leo sat at the top of the conversation, glowing with misplaced confidence. ‘Remember: vulnerable but confident! You’re an ARTISTE!’ A picture of a dramatic French mime accompanied the message for emphasis. Leaf felt a fresh wave of nausea; this did not help. It was the exact opposite of helpful, a digital pat on the back as he prepared to walk off a cliff.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath that did absolutely nothing to calm the frantic hummingbird trapped in his chest, he forced his feet to move. Each step across the asphalt felt deliberate and heavy, as if he were wading through thick, invisible molasses. The final few feet to the small side door of the garage were the hardest, a short eternity of self-doubt and rising panic. He reached out a trembling hand, the cold metal of the handle a shock to his system, and pushed his way into the belly of the beast.
The change in atmosphere was immediate and absolute, a physical blow. The air inside was thick and viscous, a cocktail of scents that coated the back of his throat: the metallic tang of oil, the sharp bite of rubber, and a hot, acrid smell he couldn’t place but felt deep in his lungs. Without warning, a massive compressor in the corner kicked on with a deafening, percussive roar that made him flinch so hard he almost dropped his backpack. He froze just inside the doorway, a startled deer caught in the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent lights.
The space was a cathedral of controlled chaos, a testament to function over form. Tools of every imaginable shape and size hung from pegboards in sprawling, intricate constellations. The hulking metal carcasses of cars, skeletal and silent, were suspended in mid-air on massive hydraulic lifts, their underbellies exposed like sleeping metal beasts. Tucked away on a wall near a cluttered workbench was a calendar, its glossy picture of a pin-up model in a bikini faded and curled at the edges, proudly proclaiming the year 1998. In this world of steel, grease, and raw power, he felt fragile and breakable, an ornate teacup left by mistake in a blacksmith’s forge.
His eyes scanned the cavernous room, searching for any sign of life amidst the machinery. He finally spotted them: a pair of grease-stained work boots sticking out from under the chassis of a massive pickup truck. The boots were still, the silence of the garage now broken only by the low hum of the lights and the high-pitched whine of the compressor winding down. Before he could work up the nerve to clear his throat or call out a name, the sound of small wheels on concrete broke the stillness.
A wheeled creeper slid out from under the truck, and there he was. Rowen. He sat up in a single, fluid motion, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting under a plain grey t-shirt. He used the back of his hand to wipe a smear of black grease from his forehead, leaving a dark streak in its place. Then he looked at Leaf, his head tilted slightly, and his expression wasn’t annoyed or impatient, but simply, calmly, curious. He didn’t say a word.
He just waited. The silence stretched, pulling taut between them, a living thing that filled the space where words should have been. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a monotonous and unending drone that seemed to amplify the frantic thumping in Leaf’s chest. Every second that passed felt like an accusation, another chance for his carefully constructed lie to crumble into dust before he even had a chance to speak it. Rowen’s gaze was steady, patient, and utterly unnerving.
Leaf’s mouth had gone completely dry, his tongue a useless piece of sandpaper. He swallowed hard, the sound ridiculously loud in the quiet garage, and forced the words out. His voice cracked on the first syllable, a high, squeaking sound that made him want to turn and bolt. “Uh, hi,” he began, the monologue he and Leo had practiced spilling out in a jumbled, breathless torrent of artistic nonsense. “I’m working on a submission for the Urban Forms art contest, and my project is… it’s about documenting the poetic textures of post-industrial spaces.”
He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, a blush of pure, unadulterated shame. He gestured vaguely with one hand, a weak, fluttering motion that was supposed to look artistic and profound but probably just made him look like he was having a minor seizure. “I’m creating a found-object installation, you see, and I need to capture the… the inherent beauty in decay. The narrative of rust and utility.” His voice trailed off into a pathetic whisper as he ran out of rehearsed lines, the silence rushing back in to fill the void. He stood there, panting slightly, and waited for the inevitable—to be laughed out of the building, to be told to get lost.
But Rowen didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He just held Leaf’s gaze for another long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his eyes drifted away, slowly scanning his own garage as if seeing it for the very first time through this bizarre, nonsensical new lens. He squinted at a leaning tower of discarded tires in the corner, his focus shifting to a rusty engine block sitting on a wooden pallet nearby, its pistons and wires exposed like metallic viscera.
He tilted his head again, a small, thoughtful gesture that sent a jolt straight through Leaf’s overwrought nervous system. That simple movement seemed to contain a universe of judgment, a silent weighing of Leaf’s ridiculous proposal. The silence was excruciating now, a physical pressure building in Leaf’s ears. His entire future—or at least, the version of it that wasn’t completely consumed by debt and creative failure—felt suspended in this greasy, quiet moment, hanging by the thinnest of threads. His imagined career, his financial stability, the pathetic, blossoming hope of a love life he’d barely dared to acknowledge. All of it depended on the next words out of this man’s mouth.
Finally, after what felt like a decade, Rowen gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. It was a gesture so simple, so understated, but to Leaf it was seismic, a tectonic shift in the landscape of his reality.
“An art project, huh?” Rowen said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air between them. “Weird.”
He pushed himself up from the creeper and got to his feet in one smooth, powerful motion. He was taller than Leaf had realized, solid and broad-shouldered, a grounding presence in the chaotic space. He grabbed an already filthy rag from a nearby toolbox and began wiping the grease from his hands, his movements economical and precise.
“Sure, man,” he said, tossing the rag onto the workbench. He pointed a thumb toward a relatively clear corner of the garage, where a single metal stool stood alone. “Grab a stool.” He met Leaf’s wide, disbelieving eyes. “Just… don’t get oil on your clothes.” And that was it. No more questions. No suspicion, no mockery, no judgment. There was only a simple, pragmatic acceptance that felt more shocking than any rejection could have.
Relief hit Leaf so hard it felt like a physical impact, knocking the air from his lungs and making his vision swim for a second. He felt suddenly lightheaded, his knees weak. He let out a massive, shuddering sigh, a sound so loud and shaky in the quiet garage that it made Rowen glance over with a single raised eyebrow. Leaf’s mind, however, was no longer in the room; it was already miles away, racing down a path of glorious, triumphant delusion.
He didn’t buy it. He couldn’t have. The thought exploded in his mind like a firework, bright and dazzling and utterly convincing. No one could be that accepting of such a transparently stupid story. He saw through it! He saw the truth—my desperation, my need to be here, near him—and he’s playing along because he feels it too. This isn’t just acceptance; it’s an invitation. This is the beginning of their secret language, the first exchange in an unspoken understanding that would bind them together. He was letting him in, not just into his garage, but into his world.
With fumbling, trembling fingers, Leaf dug his phone out of his pocket. His thumbs flew across the screen, tapping out a single, frantic message to Leo, a victory cry sent out into the ether.
‘HE SAID YES!’
He hit send and looked up, his heart soaring, to see Rowen watching him. A faint, almost imperceptible smile was playing on his lips, a flicker of amusement in his calm, dark eyes. The sight sent another dizzying rush of validation through Leaf. He was amused by my ridiculousness! He finds my flustered state endearing!
“You can set up over there,” Rowen said, pointing again toward the corner, his voice pulling Leaf back from the brink of his internal fantasy. “Try not to touch anything that’s sparking. Or leaking.” He paused, his expression turning serious for a moment. “Or both.”
The simple, practical warning landed in Leaf’s brain not as a safety precaution, but as a profound act of care. It was Rowen’s protective nature, already activated and directed squarely at him. He was looking out for him, ensuring his safety in this strange, dangerous new world. It was practically a declaration. Leaf just nodded dumbly, his throat too tight to form a coherent response, his heart feeling like it might actually burst from his chest. He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder and made his way to his designated corner, feeling as though he’d just been granted access to the most sacred and hallowed place on Earth.
—
Experience the slow-burn, heart-wrenching story of Leaf, a digitally blocked artist, and his deeply complicated friendship with Rowen in The Art of Unrequited. This emotional contemporary romance and slice-of-life tale explores unrequited love, personal growth, and creative inspiration, perfect for fans of fiction, slow-burn romances, friends-to-lovers tension, and character-driven storytelling. Click here to read the whole story.
