Before I could figure out how to respond to that—or whether I should respond at all—Cal clapped his hands together with the decisive air of someone who'd decided enough meaningful glances had been exchanged for one morning.
“Right then,” he said. “How about that lunch? I know a place that does a decent burger and won't ask too many questions about why we all look like we've been wrestling with automotive equipment all morning.”
“All of us?” I asked, because I definitely didn't look like I'd been wrestling with anything more challenging than my own inappropriate thoughts.
“You're part of the crew now,” Cal said with a shrug that suggested this wasn't up for debate. “Anyone who brings Evan coffee and watches him work without getting in the way is automatically inducted into the brotherhood.”
“Plus,” Mason added without looking up from his sanding, “Cal needs someone new to explain his terrible automotive metaphors to. We've all heard them too many times.”
“My metaphors are artistic,” Cal protested. “Poetic, even. Remember when I compared that transmission rebuild to a complicated dance?”
“You compared it to interpretive ballet,” Gideon said dryly. “And then you demonstrated. There are some things a man can't unsee.”
“Brotherhood of amateur mechanics?” Evan asked, eyebrow raised in amusement as he gathered his tools.
“Don't knock it,” Cal said seriously. “We meet every Tuesday for beer and complaints about how they don't make cars like they used to. Very exclusive membership. Very high standards.”
“What are the standards?” I asked, playing along because the warmth in Cal's eyes suggested this was more than just casual banter.
“Must be willing to hold a flashlight without complaining about the angle,” Mason recited like he'd done this before. “Must understand that sometimes the right tool for the job is a bigger hammer.”
“Must bring snacks to Tuesday meetings,” Cal added with theatrical gravity.
“Snacks?”
“Critical component of any successful organization,” Gideon said with the dead-serious expression that made it impossible to tell if he was joking or not. “How else are we supposed to fuel the intellectual discussions about carburetor maintenance and the proper way to curse at stubborn bolts?”
Evan was grinning now, the expression transforming his face into something younger and infinitely more approachable. It was the smile I remembered from high school, when he'd let hisguard down enough to find genuine amusement in the absurdity of teenage life.
“You're all insane,” I told them, but there was no heat in it. “Completely, utterly insane.”
“Sanity's overrated,” Cal said cheerfully, already heading for what I assumed was the hand-washing station. “Now come on, before I actually do start eating my boots. Mason's daughter will never forgive me if I die of starvation on her watch.”
“Your daughter?” I asked Mason, who was finally setting down his sandpaper.
“Sixteen,” he said with the resigned pride of a single parent who'd been doing this alone for years. “Thinks I don't eat enough vegetables. Keeps packing my lunch like I'm still in elementary school. Ever since her mom...” He trailed off, shrugging in that way men do when emotions get too close to the surface.
“Smart kid,” Gideon observed, filling the silence with gentle understanding. “Vegetables are important. So are daughters who worry about their dads.”
Mason's smile was soft around the edges, the kind that spoke of bedtime stories and parent-teacher conferences and all the small sacrifices that came with raising a teenager on your own. “Yeah, she's pretty great. Pain in the ass sometimes, but great.”
I watched their easy banter with something warm and fierce settling in my chest. This was what belonging felt like—not the formal politeness of professional relationships, but the messy, comfortable, absolutely essential tangle of chosen family.
As we entered the diner,the familiar smell of grease and possibility wrapped around me like a hug from my teenage years. Cal immediately claimed the booth near the windows,sliding across cracked vinyl with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been thinking about food for the past hour.
“Dibs on the window seat,” he announced, patting the space beside him. “I like to people-watch while I eat. It's educational.”
“Educational how?” Mason asked, settling across from him with the careful movements of someone whose back had seen better days.
“You learn things. Like how Mrs. Peterson from the flower shop always orders her coffee black but adds four packets of sugar when she thinks nobody's looking. Or how the mailman has a crush on the librarian but only waves at her through the window because he's too shy to actually go inside.”
“You're a gossip,” Mason said without heat, already scanning the laminated menu like he didn't know every item by heart.
“I'm a student of human nature,” Cal corrected with wounded dignity. “There's a difference.”
Evan slid in beside Mason, leaving me the spot next to Cal, and even doing something as mundane as settling into a booth, he moved like he belonged in his own skin in ways that eighteen-year-old Evan never had. The sight made my chest do complicated things that had nothing to do with the diner's questionable ventilation system.
“So,” Gideon said, claiming the chair at the end of our table and picking up the menu with theatrical consideration. “What's the verdict on small-town dining after six years of Chicago cuisine?”
