The door opened with a familiar thuds and a gust of cooler air.
Carmen breezed in like the afternoon sun had followed her, arms full of shopping bags and the smell of bakery bread trailing behind her.
"Don't freak out," she said immediately, "i didn't bring anything weird this time. Just olive bread and something that might be cheese but also might be art."
Elena looked up from the bench, phone still dark beside her.
"You were gone forever."
"My mother kidnapped me. Emotionally and literally. Took me to this weird antique place where every single thing was haunted and also cost a month's rent."
She dropped the bags onto the counter and started unpacking, talking fast, like if she stopped moving her mother might materialize behind her.
Elena tried to listen.
She really did.
But her mind was elsewhere.
Still wrapped around the words from his text. The sharp weight of it, the way it had landed like a hand pressed against her chest. She hadn't answered. Not because she didn't want to.
But because she did.
Carmen was still talking—something about cursed silverware and the cashier being a warlock—when Elena picked up her phone, thumb hovering over the messages.
She didn't overthink it.
Didn't craft the perfect reply.
She just typed:
"Meet me. Tonight. Corner of 8th and Mercer. If you don't know it. Find it."
She hit send before she could talk herself out of it.
Set the phone down again, slower this time.
Carmen was still sorting bread and reliving her ghost-antique hostage situation. But Elena didn't hear a word of it.
She didn't stare at the phone. Not exactly. But she noticed every time it didn't light up.
Carmen left around four with a wave and a "Text me if you end up making out with the mystery man or if i need to call the cops," followed by an air kiss and a smirk that Elena didn't bother responding to.
The afternoon dragged.
She organized the toolbox even though it didn't need organizing. Cleaned out the workbench drawer she hadn't opened in six months. Checked a part inventory she already knew by heart.
Still no reply.
At some point, she told herself she didn't care.
That this wasn't about him—it was about information. About understanding why a man like him had drifted into her like like smoke and unsettled everything.
By seven, she was still in the garage, hoodie over her tank top, hair twisted into a know that had given up looking cute hours ago.
The Mustang sat quiet across the bay, untouched.
She grabbed her keys.
The streets were starting to empty, the light fading into a violet dusk that stretched long shadows across the buildings.
8th and mercer.
It wasn't anything special.
A narrow corner where a run-down laundromat faced a shuttered bodega. One streetlamp buzzed above, flickering like it couldn't decide if it wanted to stay alive or give up.
She parked two blocks away and walked the rest, jacket pulled tight around her.
No reply. No update. No sign of him. She stood there for a moment, arms crossed, the cool air creeping down her collar.
And waited.
She stood there longer than she meant to.
Fifteen minutes.
Twenty.
The street stayed quiet. The flickering streetlamp buzzed above her like static in her chest.
She checked her phone once.
Still nothing.
Her jaw clenched. Arms folded tighter.
She told herself it was fine. That it didn't matter. That maybe he never got the message.
Maybe he was busy. Maybe it was for the best.
But deep down?
She knew better.
This was intentional. A choice.
He wasn't chasing. He wasn't reacting. He was waiting.
And it pissed her off more than anything.
By the time she made it back to the garage, the sky was black and her fingers ached from gripping the steering wheel too tight.
The lights buzzed softly as she walked in, threw her keys on the counter, and stood in the quiet like she'd forgotten what she came in for.
She leaned both hands against the workbench, head down.
She didn't cry or scream. Didn't let it get big.
But the disappointment burned.
She didn't hear the door open. Didn't hear it close.
The garage was too quiet, too heavy with the storm in her head. She stood at the workbench, hands braced on the edge, shoulders tight. Her breath came sharp through her nose, her jaw locked so tight it ached.
She was trying not to feel it. The disappointment. The sting. The way her own hope betrayed her.
She didn't want to care.
But she did.
And then—
A hand.
Sliding around her waist. Slow. Measured. Warm through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Her body stilled instantly. Her breath caught.
The hand settled low at her waist. Confident. Calm. And the air behind her shifted, thicker now. Charged.
She didn't know it was him.
Not until his voice came—low, right beside her ear, breath brushing across her skin.
"You gave me a place."
She closed her eyes.
That voice. That heat. That stillness that came with him.
He leaned in closer, his palm steady at her side.
"I made sure you were ready for what came next."
Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the bench.
Every breath she took was full of him now. Every part of her—the part that had waited, the part that had doubted, the part that burned—lit up all over again.