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He sees it. I know he does. His back doesn’t turn. His posture stays neutral. But the silence between us gets heavier, and he doesn’t move.

I force my mouth to move.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “For stepping in.”

It’s the only line I can manage without giving more than I mean to.

Rocco doesn’t reply. He walks out like it’s over.

Like he’s already decided which version of me he believes.

I let the door click shut.

Then I back up until my legs hit the metal drawer chest, and I slide down to the floor.

My fingers dig into the fabric of my jeans, nails pressing into my thighs.

I breathe out hard. Once.

“He knows,” I whisper. “Or he will soon.”

Chapter 5 – Rocco

She said it would be ready.

And I believed her.

That alone says too much. It’s not just about the car or the promise she made when I dropped it off. It’s the weight of her word, the way it sits heavy in the air, like it’s been tested before and never broken.

I don’t trust easily, but something about her—about the way she moves through this garage like it’s her own private world—makes me think she doesn’t break promises lightly.

The garage is quiet when I step in. The big door’s cracked halfway, letting a sliver of late afternoon light cut across the concrete floor.

The fluorescent overhead hums like it's always worked, a steady drone that fills the space without overwhelming it. It hasn’t. I know that bulb used to flicker—one twitch every four seconds, always when you’re under the lift, trying to focus on a bolt that won’t budge.

I’d curse it every time, half-expecting it to burn out mid-job.

Now it holds steady. Just like everything else she touches. The air feels different, too—cleaner, like the chaos of a working garage has been tamed, put in its place by someone who knows how to make order out of a mess.

The place smells like rubber and oil cooked under pressure, like it’s been running hot all day, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes and reminds you of long hours spent tearing apart engines.

I take a few steps inside, let the door rattle shut behind me with a metallic groan that echoes faintly in the cavernous space.

The floor’s clean, not a stray bolt or smear of grease in sight. Tools racked neatly, each one in its place, glinting under the steady light. The only sound is the low hum of my car idling across the bay, a soft vibration that carries through the floor.

She rebuilt it. That’s clear. The sound alone tells me she didn’t just patch it up—she took it apart, piece by piece, and put it back together better than it was before.

I cross to the hood and rest my hand flat against the edge. Metal’s warm, radiating heat from an engine that’s been running just long enough to settle into itself.

Engine purrs low and tight, like it’s holding in a growl, a beast ready to lunge but kept on a leash. I can already tell—she tuned it right.

The rhythm is perfect, no hiccups, no lag. It’s the kind of work you don’t find in every shop, the kind that comes from someone who listens to an engine like it’s speaking.

She always did.

Clara’s at the workbench with her back turned. Hair tied up in a messy knot, strands catching the light where they’veslipped loose. Hands busy with a rag, wiping the last streaks of grease off her forearms with slow, deliberate swipes.

Her sleeves are rolled high, showing the lean muscle of her arms, marked with faint scars from years of wrenching. The same hoodie, worn soft at the edges. Same gloves hooked through a loop on her belt, dangling like they’re waiting for the next job.