She woke before the sun.
The air in the room felt too still, too warm. Her skin damp beneath the sheets, her heart thudding—steady but wrong. It took a moment before she remembered why.
The garage. The workbench. His mouth.
Elena blinked up at the ceiling, her chest tight beneath the weight of it. Last night hadn't been a blur. It had been sharp. Controlled. Every part of it carefully placed—by him, not her.
She kicked off her sheets and sat up slowly, elbows resting on her thighs, hands dragging down her face. Her body still remembered the way he'd touched her. Her mind, however, wasn't so sure she'd been ready for any of it.
She moved without thinking—sweatshirt, hallway, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath her feet as she padded into the living room. The house was dark and quiet. The kind of quiet that made thoughts too loud.
Her phone sat on the table.
Unbothered. Waiting.
She didn't touch it.
Instead, she sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the dark screen like it owed her something. An explanation. A reason. A signal that last night means something more than what it felt like now.
But it didn't move. Neither did she.
And then, like a crack in the quiet—Mack's voice surfaced in her mind. Not loud. Just...there.
"Your old man always said you had a nose for trouble. Guess he wasn't wrong."
She exhaled through her nose, jaw tight.
"You want my advice? You leave it alone. Some debts don't end clean. Some roads, once you turn down them... you don't come back."
She hadn't answered him that night. Just held the phone until the line went dead. But the words stuck.
Her eyes drifted toward the phone again. Fingers curled tight in the fabric of her sleeve.
What am i doing?
This wasn't her. She didn't let people get close like that. She didn't hand herself over to someone she barely knew. She didn't go breathless over a stranger with control in his hands and secrets behind his eyes.
She leaned back into the couch, head tilted toward the ceiling, trying to breathe past ache in her chest.
This has to stop.
Not because she didn't want it.
but because part of her already knew—it might be too late.
Carmen's footsteps were soft against the hallway floor, followed by the creak of the kitchen cabinet. Elena didn't move, just listened. She knew it wouldn't take long before—
"Couldn't sleep either?" Carmen's voice was still thick with sleep, but it held that note of knowing. She padded into view in an oversized tee and socks, rubbing her eyes.
Elena shifted slightly, straightened her posture, the kind of automatic response that said i'm fine before she ever opened her mouth.
"Just woke up early," she said, voice even.
Carmen glanced at her, but didn't press. She moved into the kitchen, put on the kettle, cracked open a bag of toast. The clink of cutlery, the soft pop of the toaster—it filled the silence just enough.
Elena stood and joined her, reaching for mugs. "I'll take mine black."
"You always do," Carmen murmured, lips lifting slightly. Her eyes flicked to Elena's face, but again—no questions. just that same quiet awareness.
They ate in the slow calm of early morning, sitting at the small kitchen table like it was any other day. Carmen talked a little—about a client from the shop, about a strange noise coming from her car again. Elena listened, nodded, answered when needed. But most of her stayed somewhere else.
She didn't mention the night. Didn't mention the Mustang. Didn't mention him.
By the time they were both dressed, boots on, keys in hand, Elena had shoved the weight of the night into a box she didn't plan to open today.
The drive was quiet. Carmen didn't ask where Elena's head was.
And Elena didn't offer.
She gripped the wheel a little tighter than usual, the Mustang humming beneath her like it knew something she didn't want to say out loud.
The shop was warm with early sun and the soft hum of routine. Elena fell into it easily—coveralls on, gloves snug, the scent of oil and metal grounding her better than sleep ever could.
Carmen took the first client, moving between the office and the garage with easy chatter. Elena stayed by the lifts, working through the basics: brake pads, fluid checks, the usual. things she could do without thinking.
And that was the problem.
Because the moment her hands moved without her brain needing to follow, her thoughts drifted.
Back to him.
Back to the way he'd stood between her legs like he belonged there.
Back to the way his mouth had shaped her name like it wasn't new to him at all.
She pulled her phone from her back pocked during a break, checked the screen for nothing in particular. No message. Not from him.
She stared at it longer than she meant to.
Thought about texting.
Thought about asking why the hell he hadn't followed up, why he'd touched her like that and then disappeared again.
But she didn't move.
The screen dimmed in her hand. She shoved it back into her pocket.
Elena turned her focus to the car in front of her—a rusted-out sedan with a leaking radiator and enough bolts to keep her hands busy. She popped the hood, wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her glove, and leaned in.
It helped.
For a while.
Until it didn't.
Because the image of his eyes—steady, unreadable, unbothered—slipped in again.
Her hand slipped with it.
Metal tore through her glove and sliced clean across her palm. she swore under her breath, instinct snapping faster than thought. Blood welled at the edge of the cut, warm and sharp.
"Fuck."
She grabbed the wrench in her other hand, the pain flashing too fast, too bright. And before she could think, before she could stop herself—she hurled it.
It smashed hard into the corner of the bay wall, the crash echoing like a gunshot in the open space.
"Jesus—Elena!" Carmen's voice cut through from the hallway. She appeared seconds later, eyes wide, halfway into a run.
Elena stood there, blood on her glove, breath shallow, shoulders tight.
carmen took one look at her face and dropped the clipboard she was holding. "What happened?"
Elena didn't answer.
Because in that moment, she couldn't decide if she was bleeding more from the cut—or from the way everything inside her felt like it was finally unraveling.
Carmen crossed the space in three quick steps, eyes scanning Elena's glove, the thin line of red spreading across the fabric.
"Sit," she said, no room for argument.
Elena didn't fight her. She let herself be led to the low stool near the tool chest, legs stiff, hand still trembling slightly as Carmen pulled off the glove with practiced care.
"Let me see," she murmured, already reaching for the small first-aid kit they kept near the office.
The gash wasn't deep, but it was clean—sharp. Angry. Elena watched the blood bead along the curve of her palm, then spill down over the heel of her hand in a slow line. It didn't even sting. Not really.
Carmen came back with gauze and alcohol, crouching in front of her with a focused frown. "You're lucky it didn't go deeper," she said quietly. "You're usually better than that."
Elena didn't answer. Her jaw was locked, gaze fixed on a smear of grease on the floor just past Carmen's shoulder.
"This isn't just about your hand." Carmen added, softer this time. She dabbed around the wound, the sting of antiseptic barely registering.
Still no answer.
"You don't have to talk about it," Carmen said after a moment, pressing a clean pad into Elena's palm. "But maybe don't pretend like you're fine. That's more exhausting than bleeding."
That almost got a smile. Almost.
Elena inhaled slowly, watching Carmen tape the gauze in place. Her hand looked smaller like that—wrapped up, contained. Safer.
When it was done, Carmen stood. "You want to take five?"
Elena blinked. Shook her head. "No. I want to finish the car."
Carmen studied her for a second, then nodded. "Okay. But if you throw another wrench at my wall, i'm charging you for it."
That earned the smallest curve of Elena's mouth.