George makes a sound of disapproval somewhere under the hood. My brain does not produce a fast answer to that.
“I got it,” Carter says, holding onto the part, immediately going Dad mode. He doesn’t let go right away. “You’re not supposed to be doing this yet.”
“I’ve got a perfectly good other hand.”
Carter hovers a second longer than necessary, then releases it. “Yeah. That’s not what I meant.”
George ignores that, already focused on the engine.
Carter shifts closer anyway. “What do you need?”
“Hold that steady.”
Carter steps in without hesitation, bracing the hose exactly where George needs it. They fall into a rhythm that looks a hundred times rehearsed. Carter passes tools before George asks for them, adjusts his grip without being told, watches his hands a little too closely for someone who’s just here to drop something off.
I lean back against the car, sipping my coffee, and watch.
“Careful,” Carter mutters at one point, low enough that it almost gets lost under the sound of metal. “Don’t push it.”
“Not pushing anything,” George mutters back.
Carter laughs a little, but doesn’t move away. If anything, he edges closer, shoulder nearly brushing George’s.
It’s subtle. I notice it anyway.
Carter’s hand rests on the frame of my car, close enough to George that he’d only have to lean a little to touch him. He doesn’t lean. Doesn’t need to. He’s already inside whatever this is, and it’s working, and something hot and wrong turns over low in my stomach.
I don’t like it. I don’t like how naturally Carter knows where to stand, or how they move together as if they share one mechanic brain cell between them. I don’t like that George hasn’t moved away once in the last twenty minutes. And I especially don’t like that I’m standing here in my own parking lot drinking coffee and reacting to this like a man who needs to get a fucking grip.
Jesus Christ. Somebody sedate me.
I try not to look as if I’ve been paying too much attention. “Am I supposed to help, or is this a closed operation?”
Carter glances over, probably just remembering I’m also here. “You’re doing great for moral support.”
“Thought so.”
“It’s a very important role,” Carter says.
“Perfect. It’s my strongest skill set.” My smile comes easy, but it doesn’t touch the rest of it.
George still hasn’t stepped back from Carter.
I’ve seen them like this a hundred times. At the shop, at parties, crammed into the same space like no big deal. It’s always been nothing. It’s George and Carter.
So why does it suddenly feel like someone’s slowly tightening a zip tie around my ribcage?
When the engine finally fires up properly, the satisfied look on George’s face says it all. Watching him tear into my engine hits different. He moves like he owns every bolt and hose, no hesitation or second-guessing.
Pure competence. It’s hard not to respect it.
“Good as new,” he says, closing the hood.
“You’re a miracle worker.”
“Send me that photo whenever,” George calls, already walking toward his truck. Carter’s climbing into his own car two spots down, keys out.
I pull out my phone, find the VIN shot in my camera roll, and send it. I head back inside, already planning how to force money on George without triggering one of our usual “I’m not charging you” fights.
