A huff of a laugh. “Just take the drink.”
I pop the cap and take a sip. Sweet, fizzy nostalgia. Grandpa used to bring root beer home after long days in the shop. I close my eyes and let the memory settle warm in my chest.
When I look up, Nolan is watching me.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes it off. “Nothing.”
Liar.
We go through more checks—battery cables, spark plugs, signs of critter residency. (Apparently, mice think classic cars are five-star accommodations.)
Eventually, we slide into the Mustang’s front seats. The leather is cracked and worn, but it feels like home.
I settle beside him, legs tucked. The steering wheel looks enormous in his hands.
He explains his plan for the electrical and starter motor. I try to pay attention, buthis knee brushes mine, and suddenly, all my brain can do is screamcontact! contact!like a NASA launch alert.
“So the starter might have corrosion on the?—”
“I remember what it was like,” I interrupt.
He pauses. “What?”
I place my hand gently on the wheel. “Riding in her. When she worked. What it felt like.” Tears sting my eyes. “Grandpa usedto say it was like flying low to the ground. When we’d go get ice cream in the summer, he’d take the long road by the creek. Said she liked to stretch her legs.”
Nolan turns toward me, interest sharpening. “He never taught you how to drive her?”
I smile, small and sheepish. “He tried. I stalled her six times. She has opinions.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “She still does.”
I bite my lip. “I want to take her there again. To the ice cream stand. I want to feel that flight.”
His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up. “You will.” His voice wraps around the words like a vow.
Silence hums between us. Not awkward. Charged.
His thigh presses against mine—barely—andthe heat from that point of contact floods through me like I’ve been plugged into something bigger. Deeper.
My heartbeat has left the building. My brain too.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He frowns. “For what?”
“For… believing she’s worth it. For believing I am.”
The air shifts.
He looks at me like I’m a locked trunk he’s been trying to open and suddenly realizes he already has the key.
Then… he reaches up.
Calloused fingers under my jaw, cautious but sure. He tilts my face toward him.
I stop breathing.
