Click.
Nothing.
She collapses back against the seat with a groan that rolls across the yard—loud, dramatic, and weirdly endearing.
I cross the gravel before I can talk myself out of it. “Having trouble?”
She startles hard, with a full-body jump, and immediately smacks her knee against the steering column. “Ow—shit—why do cars hate me?”
“They don’t hate you.” I fold my arms out of habit, not comfort. She brings out every rigid part of me. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know.” She flings a hand toward the dashboard. “It just… won’t. Do. Car things. It made a noise. A mean one.”
“A mean noise,” I echo, deadpan. “Solid diagnostic vocabulary.”
She narrows her eyes behind her crooked sunglasses. “Don’t mock the victim.”
I almost smile. Almost. “Try it again.”
She turns the key.
Click.
Dead battery. Predictable.
I let out a slow breath. “Pop the hood.”
She freezes like I just asked her to solve quantum physics. “Which—uh… which button is that?”
I close my eyes for a beat. “Lucky.”
She winces. “Okay, okay, don’t use the voice. You do it.”
“The voice?”
“The ‘disappointed headmaster of life’ voice. Very British. Very judgey.”
This woman.
I lean in, far too close for my own peace, as I find the hood release. She smells like coffee and something faintly sweet, probably whatever lotion she uses. The scent hits harder than it should.
I open the hood.
Lucky gets out and hovers beside me, arms wrapped around herself like the engine might leap out and demand a duel. She rocks forward on her toes, squinting into the dark tangle of metal and wires.
“It looks complicated,” she whispers, like the car might be listening.
“It’s not.”
“Well, it feels complicated. Emotionally.”
I glance at her. She’s serious. Or pretending to be, which with her is the same thing.
Something tightens low in my chest. Not annoyance—something more dangerous.
“Stay back,” I say quietly.
“From the car?” Her brows lift. “Or from you?”
