His glare has the texture of sandpaper.
“Okay, fine!” I show him one comment. Just one. A tame-ish one.
He reads it.
Expression: unreadable.
Emotion: hidden.
Jaw: clenched.
“What the hell does ‘Garage Daddy’ mean?”
Oh, no.
“Uh… someone who sees you as, like… an authority figure… in a… greasy tool-based… um… fantasy scenario?” I squeak.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
“Delete it.”
I snort-laugh. “I can’t delete comments, Nolan. That’s… not how the internet works.”
He rakes a hand through his hair like he’s reconsidering gravity as a law of nature.
“They don’t even know me,” he mutters.
“Maybe not,” I say carefully. “But you matter to the story, and they can see you care.”
His muscles lock up. “I don’t care.”
I smile. “You do.”
His gaze snaps to mine. The intensity in his brown eyes could melt chrome.
“Sally.” Just my name, but it contains warning and want tangled together.
I swallow. “Nolan.”
He steps closer, just one step, but the heat between us snaps like a live wire.
“We need to focus,” he says.
“We are,” I whisper. “I am.”
That tension returns. That almost-kiss from earlier hangs like unfinished business in the air.
He backs away first. He always does.
But his voice is rough when he says, “Come back tomorrow night. We’ll keep going.”
I nod. “I’ll be here.”
I take a few steps backward toward the exit, not turning away from him until the last possible second.
He watches me walk out. I feel it like a hand between my shoulder blades, warm and grounding.
The night air is cool. The stars are bright.
