And not a single word from her.
I drop my bag by the wall, shoulders tight, jaw clenching at the thought. It shouldn’t bother me this much. I told her not to think too hard about us. Told her this wasn’t a commitment. Told her to breathe easy.
Hell, I was the one who made that boundary.
So why the hell am I pacing my own garage like a caged dog because she didn’t reach out?
I throw the switch on the small space heater in the corner—it’ll take an hour to warm the place—and shrug off my jacket. Underneath is a black shirt I’ve worn to threads, and I catch a faint whiff of something that doesn’t belong here.
Her shampoo.
Damn it.
I’m losing it.
I shake it off, head to the lift where a Pontiac GTO waits. The one that I’ve been fighting with for a week. I squat beside it and get to work, hands moving automatically because I’ve done this for half my life.
I should be thinking about getting this job finished and moving onto the next. I have a Camaro waiting for a custom exhaust, an eighties Blazer needing tires, and a newer Mustang with a weird code flashing intermittently that none of us can seem to pin down the true problem with.
I’m thinking about Holley instead.
The way she looked half-asleep in my shirt. The way she said my name like it meant safety. The way she didn’t crumble when I told her who I was and wasn't. The way she stood in the snow when I rode away, not asking for anything, not begging for more, just letting me go.
I didn’t realize how much those little things were carved into my chest until now.
The wrench slips.
“Son of a—” I hiss, shaking out my hand.
Focus, Tony. I want to kick my own ass. I try. God knows I try.
But it’s the same every damn day since I got back. At first, I chalked it up to a shock to the system—going from two days straight of heat and connection to the constant noise of the clubhouse, the work, the runs, the bikes, the everything.
Then I figured I just needed a woman. Easy. Familiar. Someone who knows the score, wants the same no-strings arrangement I’ve always kept.
But every time I considered reaching out, something stopped me cold.
Some very specific someone.
Her voice.
Her laugh.
Her stubborn independence.
Her frost-bitten honesty.
Her quiet boldness.
And the worst damn part? She hasn’t even reached out. Not once.
Not a “How are things?”
Not a “Made it home safe?”
Not even a stupid emoji.
Nothing.
