The Late Night Garage
"Her car breaks down at midnight on a deserted road in South London. The only help is a Somali mechanic working late at his family's garage. He fixes her car. She wants to thank him. The office in the back has a couch and no windows."
The engine dies on the A205 at 11:47 PM.
No warning. Just a cough, a sputter, and then nothing. I coast to the side of the road, hazards on, and resist the urge to scream.
This is not how tonight was supposed to go.
Google says there's a garage half a mile away.
Open late, according to the listing. I lock my car and start walking, heels clicking on pavement, wondering why I didn't change before driving home from the worst date of my life.
The garage is lit up when I find it. One car on the lift. One man underneath it.
"Hello?"
He rolls out. Somali. My age. Oil-stained shirt, arms that suggest he lifts more than just wrenches.
"Can I help you?"
"My car died. Half a mile back." I gesture vaguely. "I don't know what's wrong."
He wipes his hands. Looks me up and down—not predatory, just assessing.
"Nice dress for a breakdown."
"Nice assessment for a mechanic."
He grins. "Fair enough. Let me get my truck."
He tows my car back to the garage.
Works in silence for twenty minutes, then emerges with a diagnosis.
"Alternator. Dead as dead gets."
"Can you fix it?"
"Not tonight. Part won't be in until morning." He sees my face. "There's a café across the street that's open late. You can wait there, or—"
"Or?"
"Or there's an office in the back." He nods toward a door. "Couch, coffee machine, lockable door. Safer than the street."
I should call an Uber. Go home. Deal with this tomorrow.
"The couch sounds good."
The office is small but clean.
He brings me tea—actual tea, not the vending machine stuff—and sits across from me while I drink it.
"I'm Zahra," I say finally.
"Amir." He extends his hand. "Welcome to Hassan's Garage. Sorry about your alternator."
"Sorry about my night." I laugh bitterly. "The car dying was actually the highlight."
"Bad date?"
"That obvious?"
"You're dressed for somewhere nice and you look like you'd rather be anywhere else." He shrugs. "I've been there."
"What happened?"
"She showed up with her actual boyfriend." He grins at my shock. "I was the backup plan. Didn't appreciate it."
"That's terrible."
"That's dating in London."
We talk until 2 AM.
About bad dates and worse choices. About family expectations and private dreams. About being Somali in a city that doesn't always see us.
"Why are you working this late?" I ask.
"Helps me think." He stretches. "The garage was my father's. He passed last year. I come here when I miss him."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He looks around. "He taught me everything I know. When I'm here, it's like he's still around."
"That's beautiful."
"That's grief." He meets my eyes. "It's strange, how it works. Makes you hold onto things you might have let go of."
"Like what?"
"Like this garage. Like this city." He pauses. "Like the chance to talk to someone who actually listens."
I should leave.
Call an Uber, go home, come back for my car in the morning. But there's something about this office, this man, this unexpected moment of honesty at 2 AM.
"I don't want to go home," I say.
"Then don't."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?" He leans forward. "You're stuck here until morning anyway. Your car's in pieces. What's waiting for you that's better than this?"
"Nothing." The truth slips out. "An empty flat. A job I hate. A life that looks good on paper and feels like nothing."
"Then stay." He stands. Extends his hand. "Stay, and let me make you forget about all of it."
I take his hand.
He pulls me up, into him, and suddenly we're not strangers anymore. We're just two people who found each other when neither was looking.
"Amir—"
"Tell me to stop—"
"Don't stop."
He kisses me against the office wall.
The door is locked. No windows. Just us and the smell of motor oil and the hum of the garage outside.
"This is crazy—"
"This is the only thing that's made sense all night." He pulls at my dress. "Let me show you what sense feels like."
He lays me on the couch.
Takes his time undressing me—like he's examining something precious, looking for problems, making sure everything works.
"You're beautiful—"
"I'm a disaster who got stranded at your garage."
"You're a miracle who walked through my door." He kisses down my body. "Let me worship you."
He does.
With his hands, his mouth, his everything. Fixes me the way he fixes cars—patiently, thoroughly, with attention to every part.
"Amir—yes—"
"You taste incredible—"
He brings me to the edge, then pulls me back. Again and again until I'm begging.
"Please—inside—"
He rises over me.
"This is fixing more than your car—" he murmurs as he pushes in.
"Much more—"
He moves inside me while the garage hums around us. While my car sits in pieces. While the worst night of my life becomes something else entirely.
"Yes—yes—Amir—"
"I've got you—"
He does.
He completely does.
We come together.
On a couch in the back of a garage at 3 AM. Both of us breathing hard. Both of us surprised.
"I should—" I start.
"Stay." He pulls me closer. "The part won't be in until morning anyway."
"I can't sleep here."
"Then don't sleep." He kisses my shoulder. "Talk to me. Let me get to know the woman who made tonight worth working late."
"I'm not that interesting."
"You're the most interesting thing that's happened to me in months." He pulls a blanket over us. "Give me a chance to prove it."
The car is fixed by noon.
New alternator, test drive complete. He hands me the keys and a bill that's suspiciously reasonable.
"This is too cheap."
"Regular customer discount."
"I'm not a regular customer."
"You could be." He writes his number on the receipt. "Come back. Not because your car breaks down. Because you want to."
"What if I don't want to?"
"Then you have a great mechanic for next time." He smiles. "But I think you want to."
I do.
I come back that weekend.
And the next. And the next.
Three months later, I have keys to the garage. Six months later, I'm helping with the books.
"You didn't have to fall for your mechanic," my sister says.
"No." I watch Amir work, oil-stained and beautiful. "But it's the best breakdown I ever had."
Some cars die at the worst possible moment.
Some die at exactly the right one.