The fry. That single, grease-spotted potato had been replaying in his mind all morning, a ridiculous and deeply amusing counterpoint to the rhythmic scrape of his wrench against steel. He tightened the last bolt on the engine block, the familiar torque a satisfying conclusion to an hour of focused work. But as his hands fell still, his thoughts drifted right back to the diner, to the absurd, deliberate way Leaf had stared at that last fry before claiming it. It was a moment of such intense, focused weirdness that it had completely short-circuited his brain.
A slow grin spread across his face, pulling at the corners of his mouth. He shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest that was quickly swallowed by the cavernous space of the garage.
“Mouth-to-fry kinetics,” he muttered to the silent engine.
The absurdity of it was the best part. He didn’t feel the creeping awkwardness that usually followed strange encounters, nor was there any confusion clouding his thoughts. There was only a deep, uncomplicated fondness, a sense of pure amusement that settled warmly in his gut. Leaf was just… different. He wasn’t simply quirky; he was a walking, breathing art installation of odd habits and earnest expressions, a complete weirdo who was rapidly becoming a normal part of Rowen’s day. It was like someone had splashed a bucket of unpredictable color into his monochrome world of grease and steel, and he found he didn’t mind it at all.
His gaze drifted to the corner of the shop, the one that used to house a graveyard of busted alternators and cracked manifolds. Now, it was Leaf’s nest. A chaotic tangle of charging cables snaked across the floor, connecting a laptop to a drawing tablet propped on a wobbly stand. A half-eaten bag of barbecue chips, the one Rowen had tossed to him yesterday afternoon, sat precariously on a stack of art books. Before Leaf, this corner was just dead space, a repository for junk he’d get around to scrapping eventually. Now, it felt lived-in, claimed.
He had to admit, the shop was less lonely with Leaf around. The silence was no longer empty; it was filled with the low, almost imperceptible hum of Leaf’s fierce concentration. It was punctuated by the soft scratch of a stylus on a screen, and, most frequently, by the dramatic, world-ending sighs Leaf would let out whenever a line didn’t curve exactly as he’d envisioned. Those little sounds had woven themselves into the familiar soundtrack of his workday, as comforting and constant as the clatter of tools and the roar of a newly-fired engine.
Rowen leaned against his workbench, wiping a smear of oil from his knuckles with an already-stained rag. He thought about the commission, the news Leaf had delivered with an astonished, wide-eyed joy that had been infectious. A real, solid feeling of pride swelled in his chest, pure and uncomplicated. It was the exact same feeling he got when he finally coaxed a sputtering, neglected engine back to life, the kind everyone else had given up on as a lost cause. He was genuinely, profoundly happy for the kid.
He remembered the first time Leaf had wandered in here, looking like a ghost haunting its own life. His eyes had been shadowed, his shoulders perpetually hunched against some invisible weight. Seeing that haunted look replaced by a spark of genuine passion felt like a shared victory. It was more than just seeing a friend succeed; it was a surprising, powerful sense of protectiveness that had taken root in him without him even noticing. It felt like watching a younger, more fragile brother finally find his footing on shaky ground, and he realized he’d do just about anything to make sure he didn’t fall again.
A sharp buzz vibrated across his workbench, rattling a stray socket wrench against the metal surface. He picked up his phone, his thumb smudging the screen with grease before he wiped it clean on his jeans. His sister’s name, Maya, glowed on the display. He answered, leaning his weight back against the cool, solid steel of a tool chest, the phone pressed to his ear.
“Hey, May. What’s up?”
Her voice, warm and familiar as a summer afternoon, came through the speaker, laced with her usual teasing tone. “Just calling to see how my favorite grease monkey is doing. And to get the full report on your big date last night.”
Rowen let out a loud, genuine laugh that echoed off the high ceiling of the garage. The sound felt big and out of place in the quiet morning. “It wasn’t a date, you weirdo,” he corrected, his grin evident in his voice. “I was celebrating Leaf’s commission. He landed that big mural for the Canvas Gallery.”
He recounted the fry incident, framing it as the hilarious climax of an already strange evening. He described Leaf’s laser focus, the almost spiritual reverence with which he’d approached the last piece of fried potato on the plate. He told the story not as a moment of charged intimacy, but as a perfect, telling example of Leaf’s artistic eccentricity.
“He’s a good kid, just operates on a different frequency, you know?” he finished, shaking his head again at the memory. “His brain just works differently than ours. It’s all about aesthetics and composition, even with diner food.”
Maya was quiet for a moment on the other end of the line, a pause that was just a little too long. “He sounds… very fond of you, Rowen,” she said finally. Her tone was careful, each word placed with a deliberate gentleness that was completely lost on him. He missed the subtle inquiry, the gentle probing beneath the surface of her statement.
“Yeah, he is,” Rowen agreed easily, pushing off the tool chest to grab a cold can of soda from the shop’s grimy mini-fridge. The can hissed as he cracked it open. “I think I’m the first real friend he’s made in a while that isn’t one of his artsy types. He doesn’t have to pretend to be anything around me, and I don’t have to pretend to understand what a ‘dynamic color palette’ is.”
He took a long swallow of the soda, the cold carbonation a sharp sting in his throat. The metaphor that had been forming in his mind finally clicked into place, feeling perfectly right and logical. “He’s like a stray puppy I found,” he explained, the comparison making perfect sense to him. “You know, all big, earnest eyes and nervous energy. You just gotta make sure he eats and doesn’t get run over by a car.”
He could almost hear Maya’s sigh through the phone, a soft exhalation of breath that sounded like a mix of affection and exasperation. It was a sound he’d heard a thousand times before, usually when he was being particularly dense about something she considered obvious.
“Rowen,” she said, her voice softer now, losing its teasing edge. “Just… be careful with his feelings, okay? Artists can be sensitive. It can be easy to… give the wrong impression.”
Her words were a gentle warning, a tap on the brakes he was barreling right past. He took another sip of his soda, his mind immediately filtering her advice through his own straightforward, protective lens. He interpreted her caution not as a warning about his own actions, but as a reminder of the world’s potential harshness toward someone like Leaf. He was the shield, not the potential weapon.
“Don’t worry, May. I know,” he said with complete sincerity. “I won’t let anyone give him a hard time. Especially not that slick jerk Victor from the gallery. If that guy tries to pull anything, I’ll be there.”
They talked for a few more minutes, about her classes and about a leaky faucet at their parents’ house, before hanging up. But after the call ended, Maya’s words echoed in the sudden silence of the shop. Be careful with his feelings. He paced back to his workbench, turning her sentence over in his mind. He was sure she’d been hinting at something romantic—that was just Maya, always trying to analyze everything through the lens of her psychology textbooks. She saw complex emotional subtext in a trip to the grocery store.
He dismissed the romantic angle without a second thought. That wasn’t what this was. But the core of her warning—the part about Leaf’s sensitivity—stuck with him. He thought back to the incident with the flywheel a few weeks ago, the way the massive steel disc had slipped from its chain. He remembered the jolt of pure, unthinking panic that had shot through him, the visceral fear he felt seeing Leaf standing right in its path. It wasn’t just about the potential for a messy accident in his shop; it was a raw, protective instinct that had completely taken over. He wouldn’t let anything happen to the kid.
His eyes landed on a piece of paper left on a stool near Leaf’s corner. He walked over and saw it was a charcoal sketch. Leaf must have forgotten it last night. It was a surprisingly beautiful rendering of a discarded carburetor, one that had been sitting on that same stool for months, caked in grease and forgotten. In the sketch, the grime became texture, the bent fuel lines became elegant curves, and the whole ugly piece of junk looked like something you’d find in a museum.
Leaf saw things nobody else did. He found beauty in the rust and the grease, in the things other people threw away. Rowen picked up the drawing, his calloused fingers careful to touch only the clean edges of the paper. A small, involuntary smile touched his lips as he studied the intricate shading. The chasm of dramatic irony was vast and deep, and he stood firmly on one side, basking in the simple, uncomplicated warmth of a new and important friendship. He was completely, blissfully unaware of the romantic fantasy taking shape just across that divide, in a heart he was trying so hard to protect from everyone but himself.
He shook his head again, a quiet chuckle escaping him as he carried the drawing over to his desk, placing it somewhere safe, away from the oil and the tools.
He’s a weirdo, he thought, the feeling that settled in his chest as solid and true as forged steel. But he’s my weirdo.
—
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.
