By the time things settled, it was pushing toward lunch. The compound shifted the way it always did when decisions had been made. Less talking, more movement. Guys peeling off to assigned tasks. Engines starting and stopping. Radios crackling with short check-ins.
I steered Amanda toward the common room without asking.
Lunch was already out. Nothing fancy. Sandwich fixings, soup warming on the stove, the smell of coffee that’d been sitting too long but still did the job. She sat where I pointed her and ate because I stayed there until she did.
She wasn’t really hungry. I could tell by the way she took small bites and chewed like it was work. But she finished enough that I didn’t push it.
A couple of guys nodded at her on their way through. Not curiosity. Not pity. Recognition. That mattered.
When she was done, I stood. “Come with me.”
She followed without question.
The garage was quieter than usual. One of the bays was empty, sunlight slanting in through the open door. My bike sat where I’d left it, half stripped from the ride earlier that morning.
I handed her a rag and nodded at the chrome. “You wanna help, or just sit?”
She hesitated, then took the rag. “I can help.”
She worked carefully. Too carefully at first. Like she was afraid of doing something wrong. I showed her how to hold the wrench, how to feel for resistance instead of forcing it. She listened. Focused. The tension in her shoulders eased inch by inch as her hands found a rhythm.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Tools clinked. Metal cooled. Oil stained her fingers.
Normal.
That was the point.
She leaned back against the workbench at one point, watching me instead of the bike. “You do this when things get bad?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Fixing something I can see helps.”
She nodded like that made sense.
We stayed there longer than we needed to. Long enough that the sun shifted. Long enough that I could feel the moment her focus started to slip.
Her hands slowed. Her breathing changed.
That was when I knew the quiet was about to turn on her.
I wiped my hands and stepped back. “You wanna lie down for a bit?”
Not an order. Just an option.
She nodded immediately.
I walked her back to my room and shut the door behind us.
She sat on the edge of the mattress like she wasn’t sure she had permission to use the whole thing. Her fingers twisted the blanket. Her breathing stayed too shallow. She kept glancing at the closed door like it’d open on its own and swallow her whole.
It wasn’t fear exactly.
More like her body was running an old script she hadn’t figured out how to stop.
I recognized it because I’d lived it.
The hyper-awareness. The way every sound felt like a threat until proven otherwise. The way rest felt undeserved, like if you let your guard down something bad would rush in to fill the space.
