“You’re not.”
Too quick. Too honest.
Her eyes widen a little at that.
I curse silently.
“What I mean is—” I backtrack like a coward “—this kind of work takes focus. Distraction gets people hurt.”
“You think I’m a distraction?”
I look at her then—reallylook—and the words die on my tongue.
She is. More than she knows.
“Let’s just get you the help you came for,” I say, turning away.
“Okay.” She nods, but her voice is softer now.Disappointed.
I hate that too.
We work in silence for several minutes. She fetches tools without my asking now. Pays attention. Learns.
The sounds of the shop at night are familiar—metal on metal, the hum of the lights, the occasional drip of oil. But with her here, everything feels… louder. Closer. Charged.Like a fuse has been lit somewhere under my ribs.
When I turn, she’s holding the flashlight wrong. I move to adjust it,and our hands brush again.
Her breath hitches. So does mine.
I should step back. I don’t.
“You need to angle it here.”
She tilts it. “Like that?”
“Yeah.” It comes out hoarse.
Her eyes search my face. “I’m not trying to distract you.”
“You are,” I murmur before my brain catches up. “But it’s not your fault.”
Her lips part.Hope flickers.
I cut that off fast. “We should focus on your car.”
“Right,” she whispers.
But she doesn’t move away.
I’m the one who forces the distance.I turn to the battery, checking connections that don’t need checking to give myself something to do.
“You said this car meant everything to you,” I say after a minute.
She nods. “It’s all I have left of my grandpa.”
“Then we’ll bring it back.” My promise is simple. Certain.
Her eyes shine. Not tears, but something brighter.“Thank you, Nolan.”
