I ignore them. I’d rather let them think I’m a machine, someone who runs on gears and silence and doesn’t bother with shit like feelings. It’s easier that way. They can build their little fantasies, cast me as the unfeeling bastard with the ticking time-bomb heart.
But that’s not the truth. The truth is, I’m not looking for a woman, or redemption, or any of the things that make men act like idiots. I’m only doing the right thing: keeping her safe. That’s all there is to it.
Except somehow, after a cup of coffee and enough mentions of Riley or ‘the new girl’ that I can’t take it anymore, I end up out in the parking lot, reaching through the busted glass of her window, unlocking the door, switching it into neutral, and pushing the damn thing into the garage. Soon after, there’s a beer in my hand and a frown on my face as I survey the damage.
What the fuck am I doing?
I tell myself it’s just habit — fix what’s broken, make it run. But when I see the shattered glass, the cheap tires, the oil so old it’s practically sludge, something settles in my gut. It isn’t right that she’s living like this; it isn’t right that she was livinginthis.
She deserves better.
I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
The clink of tools, the rhythm of steel and iron — it calms me. I replace the window, change the plugs, check the brakes, swap the filters, change the oil, put on new tires. Every small repair pulls me forward to another. Then the late morning sun comes shining through the windows of the shop just as I’m bringing my beer up to my lips, and I realize I’m smiling. Because I can picture her driving this car when it’s done — safe, warm,not looking over her shoulder. Maybe going somewhere good. Maybe smiling again, too.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does. It makes something tight in my chest ease just a little.
I think I’d like to see that smile in person.
By the time I lower the jack and step back, sweat’s running down my neck and the garage smells like oil, beer, and redemption.
That’s when it hits me.
This isn’t just about fixing a car; it’s about her. The sound of her voice this morning when she said hello. The way she said she doesn’t need saving, but looked like she hasn’t been safe in years. The way I want to be that one who gives her what she so desperately needs.
I exhale hard, wiping my hands on a rag.
I need to be careful. Real careful. Because whatever this is, it’s already getting dangerous. Not only for me, but for her. I need to be careful. I've lost too many people already, and I won't add her to that list.
“Breaker?”
Her voice drifts from the doorway, soft and uncertain. I turn.
Riley’s standing there, hair tied up, wearing jeans and that faded bar T-shirt that somehow looks too good on her. She’s holding a pie, of all things. It’s warm, golden, with steam curling from the crust.
I blink. “You bake now?”
She shrugs, smiling just a little. “Molly told me about what you were doing. Then she said I could use the oven. Figured I’d say thanks for… well, everything.”
My throat feels tight. I glance at the car, gleaming and whole again.
“Didn’t do much,” I say.
“Looks like more than ‘not much’ to me.” She steps closer, pie balanced in her hands like a peace offering. The smell of cinnamon and sugar fills the air. “It looks like a lot. I don’t know how good this pie will actually be. I haven’t had an oven in forever. But I think it should be okay. It was my grandmother’s recipe. Apple pie.”
Her eyes find mine, and for a second it’s quiet — just the hum of the garage lights and the echo of my own heartbeat. Something twitches inside me and a warmth floods my body, starting in that space behind my ribs that’s full of so many inconvenient, wrong thoughts about the woman in front of me.
I tell myself to look away, to keep the line sharp and clean between us. It’s better for both of us this way.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Because somehow, this woman with a pie in her hands and bruised edges around her smile feels like the most dangerous thing I’ve ever faced. And all I can do is reach out with a shaking hand, take hold of the pie, and seal my fate with a gruff whisper.
“Thank you.”
Chapter Nine
