The light woke her first.
Pale and early, stretching across the floorboards through slats in the blinds. It painted soft shadows on her walls, caught on the edge of the jacket she'd thrown over the chair the night before.
Elena blinked slowly.
For a second, she didn't remember anything.
Then it hit her like a bruise.
The club.
The hand.
His breath in her ear.
Her own voice, cracking open in the kitchen.
She rolled onto her back with a groan and threw her arm over her face.
"God."
It wasn't even nine yet, Carmen's room was empty—she'd left a note on the counter in thick black ink: Coffee in the pot. Don't pretend you're fine. I'll be back later.
Elena stood barefoot in the kitchen, mug in hand, tied back in a loose know that hadn't survived the night. She didn't bother checking her phone.
She didn't want to see if he'd texted.
Didn't want to know if he hadn't.
The garage opened late on weekends, but she found herself slipping into routine anyway.
Coffee. Keys. Jacket. The same boots she always wore when she needed to feel like she still had some grip on herself.
By the time she got there, the bay was quiet. Just the faint hum of a fridge in the breakroom and a half-finished checklist clipped to the wall.
She set her mug down. Opened the toolbox. Tried to work.
And for twenty-three minutes, it almost felt normal again.
Almost.
But then her hand brushed the Mustang's hood as she passed—cold, still, impossibly familiar—and her chest caught.
Because it wasn't just a car anymore.
It was him.
And no matter how far she tried to shove last night behind her—
It was still humming under her skin.
The soft clang of the bell above the front door pulled her out of it.
She wiped her hands on a rag and turned, expecting another oil change or tire rotation from someone half-listening to her advice.
But the man who stepped in looked older—graying at the temples, tall, denim jacket worn in all the right places. He moves like he knew the space.
"Elena," he said with a smile that tugged gently at his face. "Still smells like grease and loyalty in here."
She blinked, then recognition clicked into place. "Mr. Carrow?"
"Damn right." He took off his cap and ran a hand over his hair. "Didn't think i'd catch you alone. Thought you'd have ten apprentices running around by now."
She smiled, a little tired but real. "Guess i'm still a control freak."
He laughed, then looked around the bay like it was sacred. "Your dad'd be proud. Place still runs cleaner than half the garaged in the city."
That hit her a little harder than she expected.
He walked over to the counter and set down a small maintenance sheet. "Just the usual tune-up. And maybe a new set of eyes on the brakes. They've been acting jumpy, but i trust your gut over mine."
She nodded, taking the paper, trying not to show too much of the way her throat tightened.
"Thanks," she said. "For... all of that."
Mr. Carrow gave her a look. One of those older-man, knows-more-than-he-says kind of looks. Then:
"Grief doesn't end. But you've done more than survive it. You're building something on top of it."
He didn't linger on it. Just gave her a soft nod and stepped back toward the waiting area.
But the words stayed.
Settled under her skin.
And for the first time that morning—
She didn't feel like she was drowning.
By mid-morning, Elena had the hood of Mr, Carrow's sedan propped open, sleeves rolled up, gloves already smudged from the usual tune-up dance—air filters, fluid top-offs, belt inspection.
The familiarity of it calmed something in her. The rhythm. The focus. The way the world narrowed to parts and movement and knowing exactly what came next.
Mr. Carrow stayed in the waiting area for a while, leafing through an old car mag like he had a dozen times before.
By the time she was finishing up the brake check, he disappeared for a minute—then returned with a brown paper bad and two bottled iced coffees in hand.
"Figured you'd forget to eat. Again."
Elena raised a brow from beneath the car. "You spying on me now?"
"Kid, i've been bringing my car here since you were running around this place in your dad's oversized coveralls and yelling at the torque wrench for being 'stupid.'"
She snorted, grabbing a rag to wiper her hands. "It was stupid. Never caught right."
"And you used to throw it across the floor like it owed you money."
She smirked, stepping out from under the hood. "I was passionate."
Mr. Carrow handed her the sandwich. "You were a menace. But you cared. That's why your dad never made you stop."
They sat on the edge of the workbench for a few quiet minutes, unwrapping lunch and sipping from the sweating bottles.
He glanced around the shop, then back at her.
"I watched this place come together," he said. "Watched your dad run it like it was his heartbeat. Now you're doing the same."
Elena looked down at her sandwich for a second, then nodded. "I just don't want to lose it. Any of it."
"You won't," he said. "You've already made it yours."
She didn't know what to say to that.
So she just smiled. A real one. Small, but warm.
And for a little while, they ate and talked and laughed—about the time her dad rigged a radio to play only one blues station for an entire week, about the old red pickup Mr. Carrow finally let go of after fifteen years, about Elena breaking a windshield trying to replace wipers "Like a badass."
And for the first time in what felt like days—
Elena felt okay.
The lull in conversation stretched gently, both of them chewing in comfortable silence.
Then Mr. Carrow looked past her shoulder.
"That Mustang out there," he said casually, nodding toward the bay window. "Yours?"
Elena's eyes followed his.
The car sat just where she left it—still, silent, impossibly sleek beneath the soft wash of daylight.
She hesitated. "Sort of."
Carrow let out a low whistle. "Pretty damn car. Always wanted one just like it. Never pulled the trigger." He chuckled to himself, then mumbled, "Too much style for an old man like me."
She smiles at that, lips tight. "She's a lot to handle."
The words slipped out before she could catch them.
He didn't catch the double meaning, but she did.
Her stomach gave the smallest twist.
She shook it off quickly, biting into the sandwich again.
Back to the moment. Back to now.
When the car was done and double-checked, Carrow stood by the open door with one hand braced on the roof and looked at her the way people look at someone they've known forever.
"You know," he said, voice lower now, gentler, "I think your dad knew you'd take over. Even when you didn't."
Elena looked up, something sharp and warm blooming behind her ribs.
He nodded once. "He'd be proud, Elena."
Then he got in, closed the door, and pulled off with a lazy wave out the window.
She stood there for a second, watching the taillights disappear.
The quiet crept back in. Just her and the Mustang. The scent of oil and coffee in the air.
Suddenly she remembered her phone—that she hadn't looked at it all day.
She pulled it from her back pocket, thumbing the screen to life.
Two texts.
One from Carmen:
"Hey—might drop by this afternoon. Something came up with my mom, but i'll fill you in later. Don't yell at me 😘"
She smiled faintly.
Then the second one.
It was from him.
"You walked away. I let you. But the way you looked at me said more than you're ready to admit.
The door's still open, Elena.
You just have to stop pretending you don't want to walk through it."
Her stomach clenched.
Heat rose at the back of her neck—slow and sharp, like the echo of his breath still lingered on her skin.
She hated how easily one message could set her off balance again.
She locked her phone.
Set it face down on the bench.
And stood there for a full minute, heart pounding quietly in her chest.