I follow like a duckling.
“It’s my grandpa’s Mustang,” I say. “She’s been sitting a while, but we?—”
“How long?” He crouches, flashlight in hand, inspecting the undercarriage even from down here.
I tilt my head, mesmerized by the flex of his shoulder muscles as he moves. “Um… since he passed. Almost five years. Grandpa had to stop working on her when he got sick.” I twist my fingers together, then force myself to stop. “I’ve kept her covered.”
“That’ll help,” he murmurs.
He stands, and the flashlight beam catches his face. Sharp jaw. Shadowed stubble. Dark eyes until the light hits them, highlighting the green flecks mixed in with the brown.
He wipes his hands on a rag. “Keys?”
I hand them over, trying not to look like I’m parting with a sacred relic. Which I am.
He slips into the driver’s seat and tries the ignition. Same whine, same refusal. He listens, eyes narrowed. My heart tap dances.
After a beat, he gets out. “She’ll need a full fuel system flush. Battery’s dying. Starter’s fighting for its life.”
He says it like a doctor delivering a mild diagnosis rather than a cop giving a homicide report.
My lungs start working again.
“So… is she fixable?” I ask.
He looks at me like I just asked if water is wet. “Everything is fixable if it’s worth fixing.”
I feel that sentence settle somewhere deep inside my ribs.
He nods toward the shop. “I’ll tow her in.”
I hover, useless but eager. He backs the truck, hooks the trailer, and maneuvers the Mustang as if she’s weightless, rolling her into the warm glow of the garage.
Inside, the shop smells like metal and heat and every memory I loved as a kid when I chattered away while Grandpa tinkered on this car.
Nolan drops the Mustang into place and turns to me. “Ground rules.”
I straighten like I’m being sworn into the army. “Okay.”
“Don’t touch anything unless I say.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t film me without asking.”
“Okay.”
“No live streams.”
“Yes. I mean, okay.”
“And when I say it’s time to stop, we stop.”
I nod. “I can follow rules.”
He raises an eyebrow as if he doubts that very much.
“And you can… actually help?” I ask tentatively. I’m hopeful but braced for disappointment.
