I hit record and narrate. “Update: Mustang Sally is being difficult, but I’ve dragged her to the only mechanic who apparently works after dark. This burger is my only comfort in these trying times?—”
Nolansnorts. Actually snorts. It’s a soft, surprised sound like a laugh escaped him by accident.
I grin at the camera. “Ignore the noise. That was definitely not the growl of a grumpy man trying to enjoy his fries.”
He leans forward as I pan across the table—hisarm, hishand, thatvein that runs along his forearm. My viewers are going to haveopinionsabout that.
I stop recording before my audience gets their first crush on him.I’m not ready to share.
When the plates are clean, he pulls out his wallet.
“I can pay,” I say quickly.
“I know.” He stands, tossing bills onto the table. “But I invited you out. It’s on me.”
I frown. “You said this wasn’t a date.”
“It’s not.” His gaze flickers to my mouth again,betraying him. “But it’s still on me.”
Heat pools beneath my skinat the implication.
The night air curls cool around us as we walk outside. Fireflies dance across the parking lot like someone sprinkled enchantment over Clover Canyon.
He opens the truck door for me again.My heart does a full flip. Not an accident this time.
Inside, the air feelscharged, as if every molecule knows something is sparking between us and is just waiting for ignition.
As he drives, I steal a glance. His jaw is tight. He grips the wheel like it’s holding him together.
“You don’t have to help me,” I say quietly.
His eyebrows lower. “I know.”
“So… why are you?”
A long silence. Then: “Because you give a damn.”
About the car. About the memories. About doing things right.
“And that matters to you?”
“Yeah,” he replies, his voice deep, rough, and honest. “It does.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I let thewarmth of that truth settle in my chest.
When we reach the garage, he kills the engine but makes no move to get out. Neither do I.
A question hangs in the air between us. Something aboutboundaries andlines neither of us planned on crossing tonight.
He turns to me. “Tomorrow night, we’ll start tearing down the fuel system properly.”
Relief and excitement flow through me along with anticipationthat feels suspiciously like longing.
“I’ll be here,” I whisper.
“7 PM. Don’t be late,” he says, but there’s no bite to it this time.
We sit there for a moment longer in silence, the kind thatvibrates.
