Heat crawled up my neck as I realized I'd been caught gawking like a teenager at his first strip club.
“Sorry,” I said, stepping into the garage proper. “Didn't want to interrupt the artist at work.”
“Artists,” the guy corrected with a laugh. “Plural. This here's a full-service operation.” He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better decades. “Cal Harker. And that tall drink of brooding silence over there is Mason.”
I followed his gesture to where a lean man with salt-and-pepper hair was methodically sanding what looked like a car door, coffee thermos within easy reach. Mason glanced up longenough to give me a nod before returning to his work with the focus of someone who found peace in repetitive motion.
“Nate Harrington,” I offered, because apparently we were doing introductions. “And thanks for letting me crash your... whatever this is.”
“Brotherhood of amateur mechanics and professional time-wasters,” Cal said with mock solemnity. “Very exclusive membership. Very high standards.”
Evan glanced up from the engine bay, and his smile was soft around the edges, pleased in a way that made my chest do stupid things. Like he was happy to see me, happy that I'd come to watch him fix my dad's car like some domestic god of automotive repair.
“Almost done,” he said, voice carrying that rough quality that meant he'd been concentrating. “Just need to top off the coolant and she should be good as new.”
“Better than new,” Gideon added, emerging from what looked like an office space with a clipboard and that weathered expression he wore like armor. “That hose was original equipment. Been waiting to fail for about five years now.”
“See?” Cal said, gesturing vaguely at the assembled mechanics. “Full-service operation. We don't just fix your car, we predict its future mechanical failures. Very forward-thinking.”
“Psychic mechanics,” I said, playing along because there was something infectious about Cal's easy humor. “That's definitely going on Yelp.”
“Don't give him ideas,” Mason said without looking up from his sanding. “He's already convinced half the town he can diagnose engine problems by listening to the radio.”
“I have a gift,” Cal protested. “An ear for automotive distress. Very scientific.”
“Very something,” Gideon muttered, but there was affection in his gruff tone that spoke of years of working with Cal's particular brand of chaos.
Watching them banter felt like being invited into something private and precious—the easy camaraderie of people who'd learned to work together, who trusted each other's competence even when they mocked each other's methods.
“So what's the damage?” I asked, pulling out my wallet because there was no way this repair was actually free, despite Evan's protests yesterday.
“On the house,” Evan said before anyone else could answer. “Friends help friends, remember?”
The casual way he said it made my throat tight with emotions I wasn't ready to examine. Because that's what we were doing, wasn't it? Learning how to be friends again, how to exist in each other's orbit without the weight of history crushing us both.
Even if watching him work made me want to do decidedly unfriendly things to him.
“At least let me buy lunch,” I said. “For all of you. It's the least I can do.”
“Now that,” Cal said with a grin that transformed his grease-smudged face, “is an offer I won't refuse. Been working since six this morning and I'm about ready to eat my own boots.”
“They're steel-toed,” Mason added helpfully. “Might be tough to digest.”
“I have strong teeth,” Cal shot back. “Years of practice chewing on stubborn bolts and Gideon's dubious life advice.”
“My life advice is excellent,” Gideon protested. “It's your listening skills that need work.”
Evan straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans in a gesture that should not have been as attractive as my libido was insisting it was. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his chest, andI had to actively remind myself to breathe like a normal human being instead of a hormonal disaster.
“There's something different about you,” I said without thinking, the observation slipping out before my brain could edit it into something less personal.
Evan's hands stilled on the rag, and for a moment I thought I'd crossed some invisible line we'd drawn yesterday. But then his expression shifted into something curious rather than defensive.
“Different how?”
“You're talking more,” I said, because now that I'd started this conversation I might as well commit to the crash landing. “I mean, you always talked to me, but now you're... I don't know. Less careful about it. Like words don't cost you something every time you use them.”
“Maybe I found better reasons to use them,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made my chest tight with recognition.
