The dash has been restored to its original glory, with fresh upholstery in classic black and silver. The glove box still bears Grandpa’s old decal, carefully recreated in his handwriting. And the custom shift knob Nolan gave me,Mustang Sallyengraved in elegant script, sits proudly in place like it’s always belonged there.
I circle her slowly, hand trailing across the hood, the roof, the trunk. She purrs in my memory. In my bones.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“Like her owner,” Nolan says behind me. “And she’s yours. Every bolt. Every weld. Every wire.”
Tears well, but I blink them back. Not because I’m afraid to cry, but because I want to remember every detail without blur.
Like this man who’s claimed my heart, the Mustang was never broken; she just needed the right kind of love to make her whole again.
Nolan gestures to the driver’s seat. “You do it.”
My heart tries to escape my chest as I slide into the driver’s seat and clutch the wheel. Nolan leans one forearm through the open window, bracing his weight, close enough that I feel his breath on my cheek.
“Turn the key when you’re ready,” he says.
I look at him. His eyes are warm and steady. His confidence wraps around me like a safety harness.
I turn the key.
The same guttural whine I’ve become familiar with greets me. Then, something catches. Chugs. Hesitates.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper.
The engine explodes to life. Sheroars.The sound hits my body like thunder under my skin. It’s loud, rough, and magnificent. The entire car shakes, vibrating with history and hunger.
My breath breaks into a sob. “She’s alive.”
Nolan grins as he witnesses the resurrection. “Things can be fixed if they’re worth fixing,” he says, repeating the very words he said to me that first day when I brought him the dream that he’s made a reality.
I don’t think. I fling the door open and launch myself at him. He catches me midair, arms around my waist, spinning me once in pure, reckless joy.
I bury my face in his neck and cry and laugh all at once.
“She’s running,” I gasp. “She’s really running.”
“You did this,” he murmurs. “You brought her back.”
We,I think. But my mouth is too busy kissing every inch of his jaw it can reach.
He laughs that low, rare rumble and sets me on my feet, but keeps me pressed against him.
The Mustang purrs behind us, idling, alive, and proud.
“I wish Grandpa could see this,” I whisper, emotion stinging.
“Why don’t we show him?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
Nolan nods toward the Mustang, that soft half-smile of his tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s take her for a drive. Let’s go see your grandparents.”
For a second, I can’t speak. The suggestion is so simple. So right. My throat tightens with sudden emotion, and all I can do is nod.
We don’t talk much on the drive. We don’t need to. The Mustang fills the silence with her steady growl, a mechanical heartbeat of metal and memory. The world slips by, summer gold in the fields, the horizon stretching wide.
Nolan drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for mine across the seat. Our fingers stay laced the entire way.
