Lucky lights up instantly. She’s all relief, pride, and raw, unfiltered emotion, like someone just told her the worldissurvivable after all.
“Oh my god, Ethan, you’re a genius.” she says, jumping back out toward me.
“Hardly.” I cut the truck’s engine. “But your leasing company should replace that battery. It’s their job.”
She groans. “Ugh, don’t remind me I’m a functioning adult.”
“That’s debatable.”
Her mouth drops open, scandalized. “Wow. Wow. Uncalled for.”
“You asked.”
“No, I didn’t!”
The corners of my mouth betray me, twitching upward, almost a smile.
She sees it. Her own smile shifts, softening, and for a split second, something warms the air between us. Quick, subtle, dangerous.
I disconnect the cables, coil them properly, and shut her hood with a solid click.
“There,” I say. “Try not to kill it again.”
“No promises.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But… thanks. Really.”
The sincerity hits harder than it should. I look away before it shows.
“Next time,” I tell her, “come get me before the car dies.”
“And interrupt your mysterious garage-hermit routine? Never.”
I turn toward my garage before she can catch the heat climbing up my neck.
Because the truth is simple, and unsettling:
I heard her engine struggling, and I came running.
And I’m not sure I hate that.
The afternoon moves the way I like it: quiet, structured, predictable. I’m at the workbench in the garage office, closing out a report and re-checking the diagnostics on a motion-sensor unit. The kind of task that keeps my hands busy and my mind steady.
The school bus hisses to a stop outside.
Right on time.
A moment later, the garage door swings open and Lily steps inside, backpack sliding off one shoulder, her smile easy and familiar.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, peanut.” I crouch so she can hug me—she always does, even though she claims she’s“basically a teenager.”“Good day?”
She shrugs dramatically. “Math was boring. Lunch was weird. Colt tripped over his shoelaces again.”
“So… standard Tuesday.”
“Exactly.” She grins and plops onto the stool beside my workbench, swinging her legs. “Whatcha doing?”
“Trying to fix something someone broke,” I say, which is technically true. “How was the ride?”
