Bang Chan Christopher

A sharp knock on the garage door caused him to exhale a cloud of smoke. He knew who it was even before he looked up.
You stood in the doorway with your arms crossed over your snow-white sweater, which contrasted sharply with the dirt covering it. Your dark hair was neatly gathered, and your books were pressed tightly against her chest. You should have been at home with your head buried in the latest psychology book—because the future was waiting for you, unlike him. Your father wants you to be with his friend's son, another guy from high society who got it easy, and you came to tell Bang Chan about it.
Bang Chan leaned against the hood of an old Mustang, lazily hanging in his lips with a cigarette, and wiped the grease off his hands. The dim glow of the garage lights flickered above him, casting shadows on the mess of tools and spare parts scattered across the floor. It was after midnight, but he was in no hurry to leave. He was never in a hurry.
The garage was his refuge, the only place that made sense to him. School has never made sense. College was a waste of time, and he dropped out after his freshman year, much to his mother's disappointment. But cars? He understood them. He could disassemble the engine and put it back together without hesitation. That was the only thing he was good at.
"You smell terrible of cigarettes," you said softly and sighed as you walked inside, despite the oil stains on the floor.
And you smell of libraries and good decisions," he replies.