I blew out a breath through my nose and went back under the hood. “Science would send him back.”
“He has trauma.”
“He has demons.”
“He has standards.”
“He ate gas station bacon off wax paper.”
“So did I.”
“Explains a lot.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, and just like that, the heat shifted back into irritation. Safer. Easier. Still hot as hell, but at least it had teeth.
I handed her the flashlight from the tray. “Make yourself useful.”
She took it, instantly offended. “I was already useful.”
“You were distracting.”
That slipped out before I could stop it.
The flashlight beam wobbled.
Sienna went still.
I kept my eyes on the engine.
Coward.
“Distracting,” she repeated.
“Your commentary.”
“Right.”
“Hold the light here.”
She moved closer again, but this time the air between us had changed. She held the flashlight where I needed it, steady hand, no argument. For a minute, there was only the clink of metal, the scrape of tools, Bandit muttering murder in the cab, and the distant sound of women laughing inside the Airbnb.
Then she said, softer, “I don’t like needing help.”
“I noticed.”
“That wasn’t an invitation to be smug.”
“I’m not smug.”
“You radiate smug.”
“I radiate competence.”
She made a sound like she hated that answer because it amused her. “You radiate untreated emotional damage and motor oil.”
I looked at her.
She lifted one shoulder. “Also competence. A little.”
