Chapter Text
The late-morning sun had just begun its descent, casting direct, harsh light across the stretch of winding road that snaked past hills and sleepy fields. It was supposed to be a simple drive. A straight route to Chansia City to assist the Senior Partner of your firm on a high-profile litigation case. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until your car, your shiny, corporate-leased sedan, started coughing like it had caught some mechanical flu.
You pressed your lips into a hard line as the vehicle jerked, coughed again, then sputtered into a grudging stop at the side of a two-lane road in the middle of literal nowhere. Wheat fields to the left, a patch of forest to the right, and in front of you—the universe's idea of a punchline—a crooked, sun-faded wooden sign swinging weakly in the breeze: "G & C Auto Repair."
You sighed and adjusted your blazer as you tucked your hair behind her ears. “Great,” you muttered, grabbing your bag and phone before stepping out into the thick country heat. A screen door creaked open as you stepped into the garage, blinking against the sudden dimness. The place smelled of rubber, grease, and really old coffee. Car parts lined the walls like bizarre museum artifacts before your eyes landed on a man hunched over the hood of a rusted truck, whistling some melody off-key.
“Excuse me?” you called, your heels echoing awkwardly against the concrete. “My car broke down a few meters from here. The engine keeps stalling.”
The man looked up, adjusting his dusty cap. He squinted at you like you were a mirage. “Not from around here, huh?” he asked, voice raspy but amused.
You blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
He chuckled. “City folk always got that look. Tight shoulders. Tighter schedule.” He waved you over with a grease-smeared hand. “You’ll want Caleb. He’s the real brains here.”
“I’d prefer if you just took a look—”
The man wasn’t listening. “CALEB!” he bellowed, as if summoning a spirit.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” you began, trying to keep your tone even, “but I’m on a schedule and would appreciate just a quick assessment—”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” the man interrupted, grinning like he’d heard it all before. “Caleb don’t bite. Not unless you ask nice.”
You gave him a tight smile, trying very hard not to say something you'd regret. Then came the thud-thud-thud of boots on concrete.
From the shadows of the workshop emerged a tall man dragging a mechanic’s cart behind him. A rag slung over one shoulder and grease on his jaw. Oil-stained white tank top clinging to a frame sculpted by labor, not leisure. Then your eyes found his ragged jeans low on his taut hips. Dark brown hair stuck to his forehead from the heat. His arms gleamed faintly with sweat, the veins in his forearms catching the light.
You blinked.
Caleb stopped in front of you, muscular arms crossed. His purple eyes swept over your outfit: pressed slacks, heels, gold-tipped pen tucked in the inner pocket of you blazer, and then back up to your face, amusement flickering behind his lashes.
“Well, aren’t you a little overdressed for a funeral?” he drawled.
Then you were snapped back into reality, making you raise your brows. “Excuse me?”
He tilted his head. “Your car. It’s dead, isn’t it?”
“I’m on my way to a court hearing, not a picnic.”
He grinned. “Wouldn’t guess it. You’ve got the whole ‘judge me later’ vibe going on already.”
You ignored the bait. “Can you fix it or not?”
Caleb crouched, peering out toward the road through a dusty window. “Silver sedan? Looks like one of those corporate leases.”
“It is.”
He stood, brushing his hands off on a rag. “Bring her in. Let me take a look.”
“I told the other gentleman I don’t have time to be tossed from one person to another—”
“Then it’s your lucky day,” Caleb cut in. “I’m the last stop. Head mechanic, engineer, therapist for traumatized engines. I do it all.”
You couldn't do anything but stare at him, jaw tightening.
He simply smirked. “You coming, pipsqueak, or are we going to flirt all day?”
"Pipsqueak?", you repeated. Caleb didn't spare you a glance as he continued walking away, "It's because you barely reach my neck."
—
The car made it into the garage with a stubborn groan and a puff of exhausted smoke. “I swear, it was fine yesterday,” you explained as you leaned against a pillar, trying not to wrinkle your skirt. Caleb popped the hood, letting out a low whistle. “Lady, your engine’s running hotter than I do on a Saturday night.” You just gave him a flat look.
He grinned over the hood. “That’s lawyer-talk for ‘I think you need a new radiator hose. Maybe a full flush. Could be your timing belt too.’”
Now he's just being childish. You sighed. “How long will it take?”
“Couple of hours. Unless I find more things that need fixing, that is.”
Your body stiffened. “I don’t have a couple of hours.”
He wiped his hands. “Well, you’re welcome to go out there and ask the cows to lend you a ride.”
“Is there a town nearby? A cab?”
He looked amused. “Next real town’s twenty-five miles east. You’re in Bloomshore District, pipsqueak. We don’t do cabs. We do patience.”
As if you needed another problem right now. “I’m going to be late. I need to send documents to my colleagues.”
Caleb’s voice lowered with mock concern. “Oh no. City boss won’t like that.” You gave him a warning glare before he turned to the other man in the shop.
“You can use our WiFi,” the other man piped up. “Password’s ‘iloveengines69.’”
You exhaled slowly and stepped aside to scan the documents from you car, sending them in. At least there's a sliver of hope in this desolate little hellhole. You dialed Tara, your co-worker, explaining the situation. Thankfully, she understood your predicament and told you that the trial wouldn’t start until tomorrow morning and to rest up before meeting them at the hotel before then. After that, you hung up and felt even more tense and tired. “Guess I’ll be stuck here,” you muttered.
“Could be worse,” Caleb suddenly said from behind you. “You could be stuck somewhere with no charming mechanic.”
“You’re pretty self-centered, aren't you?”
“I prefer charismatic,” he said, popping a peanut into his mouth from a nearby jar. “Want one?”
You glanced at the jar, noticing the several dark handprints plastered all over it before you declined. Caleb leaned against a workbench, watching you with faint amusement.
“What?” you asked.
“Just wondering how a girl like you ended up in lawyer-ville.”
“A girl like me?”
“You know — smart, sharp-tongued, allergic to fun.”
You couldn't help but scowl. “Correction: I enjoy fun. I just don’t enjoy being condescended to by someone who calls himself a ‘car therapist.’”
Caleb threw his head back as he laughed. “Alright, alright. Touché.” But then he launched into a surprisingly passionate explanation about engine compression, spark plugs, and how even the smallest timing failure could kill a machine’s rhythm — his hands gesturing wildly, eyes lit with a fire that wasn’t for show.
“You see, it’s all about pulse. Heartbeat. The engine breathes, you know? Every component’s got a rhythm. When that breaks — boom.” He snapped his fingers. “Silence.”
He was explaining in such an animated manner, you found yourself watching him. There was grease on his knuckles, the small scar behind his neck, and the way he talked about engines like they were people. “Used to dream of being a pilot,” he added offhandedly, tightening a bolt. “Back when I was still dumb enough to think dreams were enough.”
Something softened in his tone, but then he looked up and grinned. “Anyway, now I just make sure other people get where they’re going. Ain’t that poetic?”
“So you fix things because you couldn’t fly them?”
He winked. “I fix things because I like watching city girls in heels try to look patient.”
Well, there goes the moment. You rolled your eyes. “You’re a jackass.”
“You wound me, counselor.”
Hours passed.
You tried working on your phone from the garage’s rickety office chair, the desk still sticky from an old liquid spill, which you did not care to identify. Caleb passed behind you every now and then, muttering things like “tight little lawyer skirt” and “she’s got corporate perfume and murder in her eyes.”
You ignored him. Or tried to. Once, he accidentally brushed past you, the scent of gasoline and lemony soap sticking to him. Your skin prickled and you sat up straighter, brushing your fingers over the screen with more force than necessary.
“Relax,” he said. “You look like you’re ready to sue the air.”
“I’m used to structure. Schedules. Deadlines.”
“And I’m used to oil burns and people who lie about weird engine noises. We all suffer.” You tried not to laugh, but failed.
“See?” he teased. “You do have a soul under that lawyer armor.”
At some point, he brought you a bottled soda. “Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned. Unless it is. Could make for a fun trial.”
“And I'll make sure I'll put your sorry ass in jail.”
“Oooh, cuff me then, officer.” he said with a slow, smug smile.
You ignored him again — but not the way your face warmed. As the sun dipped lower and the temperature cooled, you caught him watching you once more. Not with the goal of annoying you, not even smugness — just a lazy kind of interest.
By the time the clock struck three — if the dusty garage clock was even accurate — you were restless and far too aware of the distance between where you were and where you were supposed to be. Chansia City. The hotel. The courtroom filled with polished shoes and sharp pens. Everything felt a hundred miles away now, separated by wheat fields, mechanical sighs, and the annoying buzz of flies swarming around the place.
The garage had quieted some. Caleb was elbows-deep in the guts of your car again, a wrench clinking every so often. The heat outside had begun to dip into something softer, a breeze slipping in through the slats in the wall and the open door. It stirred the scent of oil and rust and the faintest trace of lemony soap.
Your phone was pretty useless now with its battery nearly drained, and you'd already sent what you could. There was nothing left to do but wait.
Your heels clicked softly as you wandered around the open space. You were definitely not dressed for this world. The makeshift shelving, the hanging tools, the half-dismembered motorcycles in the corner — this place looked like a shrine to broken things. As you looked around, you traced a finger over an old, vintage radio covered in soot. Nearby, a shelf filled with various knickknacks: a rusted keychain, a scratched up Polaroid of a little boy holding a basketball, and a model airplane missing one wing.
Why hadn’t they left? Why did this place feel suspended in time? There were two of them. Caleb, full of cocky flair and careless flirtation, and the other man (Gideon, if you remembered correctly) whose eyes were clouded not with age, but memory. You found him seated on a fraying lawn chair just outside the garage door, sipping from a long-necked bottle of something probably stronger than soda. His silhouette was relaxed, legs crossed, eyes watching the sun sink lazily behind the golden stretch of the field.
He looked... tolerable. Less likely to tease, more likely to talk.
“Mind if I sit?” you asked, voice quieter now.
Gideon looked at you sidelong. “Suit yourself.”
You eased onto the step beside him, keeping a small distance. The breeze kissed your face, making your blouse fluttering at the collar. For a while, there was silence. Just the metal groans of the world inside the garage and the hum of insects outside it.
“So,” you began, unsure why you were even trying, “this place always this... remote?”
Gideon gave a grunt. “It wasn’t always. We used to be part of a proper town, you know. Almost 20 years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Progress,” he said, with a sour chuckle. “New roads, new cities, faster lives. They left us behind. The kids all moved out. The stores closed. The mayor died. Now it’s just ghosts and engines.”
You nodded slowly. “And you and Caleb stayed?”
He took a long swig from his bottle. “I never left. But Caleb…” Gideon trailed off, fingers tapping the neck of the bottle. “That guy came back.”
Something in his tone piqued your curiosity. You hesitated, then asked, “What do you mean 'he came back'?”
Gideon looked at you for a moment, as if contemplating whether to explain or not. “You sure you want to know?” There was something about the question that felt like a test. You nodded.
Gideon leaned back, exhaled through his nose, then began. “Caleb was left here. Not just dumped, not passed along—abandoned. Born in a van in the next town over. Parents left him wrapped in a dish towel on the porch of lil ol' Josephine's shack just at the edge of the woods. That woman — she was old even then. People said she used to be some sorta scientist or something, dunno. But she took him in.”
The wind shifted slightly, rustling the tall grass in front of them. “He grew up normal, far as anyone could tell. Quiet kid. Smiled easy, which made girls go crazy. Sharp as hell too, he always had his nose in a book or a blueprint. People loved him. Teachers said he was meant for something more. And he believed it too.”
Gideon’s voice slowed, heavier now. “He wanted to fly. He always said the sky was the only place without fences. Then, he applied to the Deepspace Aviation Administration. Worked part-time here fixing busted lawnmowers just to pay for application and test. Josephine cheered him on, even when her joints started to fail.”
The bottle made a soft clink against the step as Gideon set it down. “And then she died. It was when he was in his third-or maybe fourth-year in the DAA. No hospital, no big fuss. Just didn’t wake up one day. Caleb found her. He didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just disappeared for an entire year. We thought he ran off. But when he came back…”
Gideon paused then sighed. “He was different. He wasn't just quiet anymore, more like restrained. Like something inside him got... locked up. He stopped talking about the sky, stopped dreaming out loud. And when the world started changing — when cities grew and Bloomshore got swallowed by silence — he came back. Bought the garage off me with inheritance and savings. Said he’d keep it going.”
You frowned. “Why?”
Gideon shrugged. “Maybe because it’s the only place that didn’t leave him. Or maybe he wanted to fix things because he couldn’t fix his life. No one really knows with that guy. He’s all charm and jokes on the outside, but inside? That guy's got corners too dark to sweep.”
You looked back toward the garage. And there he was. Leaning against the hood of your car, rag slung over his shoulder, grease on his forearms, and a too-casual smile pulling at his mouth.
“Hey, pips!” Caleb called. “You gonna sit out there trading ghost stories or are you gonna come see how your engine’s bleeding?”
Gideon let out a breath that wasn’t quite a chuckle. “That’s my cue,” he muttered, standing. But before he left, he looked at you. “You see the light in him, sure. But don’t forget the shadows. I've known him for a long time but I just... I feel like I don't anymore.”
You didn’t answer, you just rose, smoothed your blouse, and walked back toward the garage.
The heat had mellowed into a softer ember now, the overhead lamp casting a golden haze over the space. Your car hood stood open like a wound, and Caleb stood beside it, wiping his fingers with exaggerated flair. “Well, Counselor,” he said, nodding toward the engine. “I regret to inform you that your client is guilty of total negligence.”
“What’s the verdict?” you asked, eyeing the mess of wires and tubes.
“Cracked serpentine belt. Coolant leak. Oh, and your battery’s running lower than your patience.”
“Is it fixable?”
“With these hands?” He wiggled his fingers. “Everything’s fixable.”
You crossed your arms. “You’re a little too proud of yourself.”
He grinned. “Confidence is attractive. Don’t pretend you didn’t notice.”
“I’ve noticed a lot. Like your inability to keep your shirt clean.”
He looked down at his grease-stained tank top. “What, this old thing? I only wear it when hotshot lawyers break down in front of my shop.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't stop your lips as they tugged upward. Caleb moved closer, brushing past you to lean into the hood, the muscles in his back flexing beneath the thin fabric. You caught yourself watching him, then quickly looked away.
“You’ve got good instincts,” he said suddenly, still facing the engine. “Most people panic when they break down out here. You walked right in. Took charge. Even if you did it with a scowl.”
“Is this your idea of flirting?”
“Nah,” he said, turning to face you now. “This is me respecting the hell out of the fact that you’re probably smarter than everyone I’ve ever met.”
What?.
He stepped forward, slowly wiping his hands, but his voice dipped, richer now too. “Also, I like the way your jaw tightens when you’re trying not to murder me.”
“I’m not trying not to murder you.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
There was a charge now. A thick, humming pull between them. “I’m trying to get to Chansia City,” you replied, matching the level of his voice.
“And I’m trying to make sure you don’t die halfway there.” His fingers reached past you to grab a wrench, his breath brushing the shell of your ear. “Looks like we both have noble goals.”
You took a half-step back, heat rising to your cheeks. “I should go sit down,” you muttered.
He tilted his head. “You can stay.”
“It’s late.”
“It’s nowhere.” Mercifully, or not, Caleb pulled back with a grin. “Also, the car’ll be ready in the morning. You can sleep in the back office or hitch a ride on a tractor.”
“I’ll take the office.”
“I’ll bring you a pillow. Maybe some legal briefs to cuddle with.”
Assessing its current state, the office was cramped and smelled vaguely of rust, gasoline, and something woodsy and masculine you couldn’t quite place. Probably Caleb. The couch had clearly seen better day. It was stained, too springy, but you threw your blazer over the back of it and sat down, finally letting your shoulders drop. You've been here for almost an entire day, you realized. There must be some sort of force messing with you right now because how the hell could anyone have this much bad luck?
The silence pressed down on you like warm velvet. Outside, the wind rattled the edges of the corrugated roof. Night had fully settled now, a dense rural blackness that the pale overhead bulb barely fought off. You glanced at you phone again — 3% battery. Wonderful. I'd be caught dead before asking Caleb for a charger or anything for that matter.
Sweat clung to the back of you neck. Your blouse was damp and your heels had left faint, dark lines across your arches. Every part of you felt worn, touched, tainted by dust, grease, and the infuriating heat of the day.
You needed to wash up. Badly.
Your eyes glanced toward the half-ajar garage door, where moths buzzed beneath the outside light. Right. Shower. Or whatever version of a shower these men had in this mechanic’s kingdom of dust and oil. You stood, slowly. “Gideon?” you called. No answer. “Caleb?” Nothing. Just the whirr of some late-night cicadas and owls hooting.
You stepped outside cautiously, hugging your arms against the sudden exposure of the open night. The scent of warm metal and wheat drifted across the darkness, heavier now. No wind. Just stillness. Even the stars looked different out here — closer. Sharper. That’s when you spotted it.
A small standalone structure near the corner of the lot. Bare wood, slightly slanted roof, a crooked lantern hanging beside its door, faintly flickering. Painted on the door in white, peeling letters: “Wash Shed.” Of course. Of course the bathroom was outside. In the dark. A whole horror movie setup away.
You stared at it for a solid minute, debating. Option one: sleep on the couch, caked in sweat, dirt, and regret. Wake up sticky, itchy, and smelling like a transmission fluid cocktail. Option two: brave the bathroom shed.
Using every remaining brain cell you had to make a decision, you closed your eyes, exhaled sharply through your nose, and muttered, “Fine.” Then you strode across the lot with as much dignity as one could muster in high heels and dust-stained slacks. The night wrapped around you like thick abyss. The kind that cloaked, quieted, and watched. Your legs moved faster, determined, as your hand reached out and grabbed the old brass handle.
Just as you touched it—
The door flung open.
You yelped. And there, standing in the doorway, was Caleb. Shirtless.
His torso was a glorious map of labor and sun. Defined lines, muscles tight from years of lifting engines, repairing steel. His skin glistened faintly under the single overhead bulb, damp from water — probably from washing his face or arms or any part of his body. Nope, don't even go there. His jeans were low on his hips, unbuttoned, belt loose in his hands as if he’d just finished threading it back on. He was staring at you, hair damp, and smirking.
Of course he was smirking.
“Well,” Caleb drawled, letting his eyes flick down your frame and back up with deliberate, slow appreciation. “Didn’t realize this shack doubled as a peep show.”
You blinked. Then blinked again. You could not stop staring at the firm planes of his stomach, the subtle dip of his V-line, and the trail of faint hair that disappeared beneath his waistband.
“I-I didn’t mean to —” you fumbled.
“To ogle?”, he teased, wiping a droplet of water from his jaw with the back of his wrist. “It’s okay, Counselor. I’m flattered. I’d be offended if you didn’t look.”
“I wasn’t —" you tried, but your gaze flicked back to his abs. Caught.
“Eyes up here, cadet.” Caleb leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms across his chest. “So, what brings you to the lair of grease and bare skin?”
You cleared your throat. “I was going to shower.”
“Oh?” His brows lifted as his eyes studied you. “But, uh, doesn't look like you've got anything to dry yourself with, sweetheart. Were you gonna run outta here nude after you finished or something?”
Shit. You hadn't thought of that. All you were thinking about was finding a place to clean yourself and get this day over with, you forgot about your overnight bag in the car. “Obviously not! I tried calling out for you and Gideon but nobody would answer me. Anyway, I don’t like feeling like I’ve been slow-cooked in engine oil all day so do you have any towels?”
“Well, I’ve only got one clean left and it’s in the back of the shop.” He leaned in a little, voice smooth. “Tell you what. Go in, get all nice and clean, and holler when you're done. I’ll bring it by.”
This guy. Your eyes narrowed. “Why does that sound like a trap?”
Caleb just shrugged, feigning innocence. “It’s not. I just enjoy being... of service.”
“Do you always flirt with stranded women while half-naked and soaked?”
“Only when they look like you,” he said smoothly. “Something about that bossy attitude and those patent heels. Gets me every time.”
You glanced at his bare chest again, cursing yourself for how warm your cheeks felt. “I’m not calling you when I’m done.”
“Sure you will,” he said, stepping aside. “Unless you want to walk across the yard soaking wet in that dirty blouse. Could be a new look. White shirt contest at G&C Auto.”
The mental image was too embarrassing to deal with. There was no way you'd go that low. “You’re disgusting.”
He grinned. “Yeah, yeah, suuure. Also, you’re still staring, pipsqueak.”
“I am not!”
He raised his hands in surrender, backing away. “Hey, I’m not judging. The guys in the city might be lacking in some areas. I get it.”
“Why you — !”
“Called it.” He stepped back a few more paces, giving you your space, but not without one final look.
“I’ll be nearby,” he said, voice dipping lower, heavier now. “Don’t scream too loud or else I might get the wrong idea. And, yeah I saw your duffel bag in the backseat, princess. I'll go get it. ” Then he turned and disappeared into the night, still shirtless, with his belt swinging loosely in his hand.
Once you were inside the wash shed, you slammed the door shut and locked it with a frustrated twist. It was small but surprisingly clean. A steel basin with a rusted mirror above it, a pipe-thin shower head fixed to the back wall, and an old wooden crate containing a half-used bottle of soap, a brush, and a loofah that looked... moderately safe.
You stared at herself in the mirror. God. Your face was flushed.
“What is wrong with you?” you muttered as you started peeling off you clothes.
Caleb was... Caleb was a walking problem. A beautifully sculpted, infuriating problem.
You fiddled with the shower dials on the wall before finally getting the cold water to come out and pour over your skin, trying to wash away not just the day’s sweat and dust but also the persistent tingle left behind by the way Caleb looked at you. The way he spoke. Every word laced with a kind of heat that obviously had nothing to do with the weather.
Ten minutes later, towel-less, you stood by the door, dripping and mildly humiliated. “Caleb?” you called, hating how his name sounded softer now in your mouth. “Towel?”
A beat. Then footsteps. And there he was again, your duffel bag in one hand and a slow, wolfish grin on his lips. “Told you you’d call.”
You peeked your head out through the cracked door, only your face visible. “Just hand it over.”
“Say please.”
You glared. “I’ll walk out like this.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Caleb.”
He grinned wider but held out the bag, carefully slipping it through the crack of the door as your fingers brushed. “So proper,” he murmured. “Even wet and barefoot. You never break character, do you?”
You met his gaze evenly this time. “And you just never stop pushing boundaries.”
“I’d stop,” he said softly, “if I thought you really wanted me to.”
Not taking the bait, you grabbed the bag from his hand. "Whatever. You can leave now." Caleb's eyes dropped to your wet lips and lingered there before he smiled to himself and walked away again.
After a few moments, you shut the door gently, leaning your forehead against the wood for a long breath. The water sliding down your shoulders, your hair dripping onto the floor in uneven trails. The shed was silent again, save for the faint buzz of the lantern outside and the water dripping from the pipe. But the silence didn’t wash you clean, it only pressed harder.
You dressed quickly in the clean spare shirt you packed and slipped into the shorts, subtly enjoying the soft fabric against your skin.
When you finally stepped back out into the night, the air was cooler and the stars above looked scattered like shards of glass. Out in the dark, the garage loomed with its dull glow, Caleb somewhere inside, still tinkering, probably humming to himself, probably shirtless still.
The image of him — belt in hand, smug grin, abs carved like sin itself — burned behind your eyelids. You hated how easily it had rattled you, how easily Caleb could flick some switch inside you, the one you worked so hard to keep locked tight in courtrooms, in offices, in boardrooms filled with sharp eyes. What you hated even more is that a part of you didn’t hate it at all.
It wasn’t just his body, though Astra knew that was distracting enough. It was the way he looked at you, like he’d seen past the polished armor you wore for the city and found the softer, messier version of you. You didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. Didn’t want to admit he might be right.
You pulled your arms around yourself and walked briskly back to the office. Inside, the couch waited, lumpy but at least familiar, with your blazer still hung from its back. The day had been too long. Too strange. Too filled with detours and ghosts of other people’s pasts. Gideon’s story still haunted you; the boy abandoned, the dreamer grounded, the man who returned with shadows in his eyes. And yet Caleb smiled like none of it mattered. Like every day was just another chance to poke fun at the world, to flirt with a stranger, and to play at being untouchable.
Instead, you rubbed your temples. This wasn’t your problem. Tomorrow you;d be gone. Back to Chansia City, back to civilization, back to the case that mattered. You wouldn’t think of Caleb, or his scars, or the way his voice dropped when he wasn’t joking. You wouldn’t think of how close he’d leaned at the hood of your car, or how his gaze seemed to dare her to let something slip. You curled sideways onto the couch, hugging the pillow Gideon had tossed you earlier. It smelled faintly of dust and smoke but you tried to ignore the ache in your back and the heaviness in her limbs.
All you wanted now was sleep. Sleep, and a clean morning, and a road that would take you far, far away from Bloomshore District, this garage, and the man who lived here like a contradiction.
Tomorrow, you promised yourself. Tomorrow, this day would be over.