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She doesn’t look up.

“You’re early,” she says, her voice cutting through the hum of the garage without effort.

“Or you’re late.”

That gets a pause. Her shoulders shift like she’s about to say more, but she doesn’t. The rag slows in her hand, just for a second, before she tosses it onto the bench with a practiced flick.

Instead, she walks over, grabs a tablet from the cart, and taps through a checklist. Cool. Measured. Like she didn’t almost get jumped in this same shop yesterday. Like the air doesn’t still carry the memory of that fight, the way she moved—fast, precise, like she’d been ready for it her whole life.

I watch her for a beat. The way she walks, each step deliberate, like she’s mapping the floor in her head. The way her fingers move when she sets the tablet down, quick but controlled, no wasted motion.

She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t glance around. But there’s tension in her left hand. She keeps flexing it betweenmovements, probably from where it hit the wrench yesterday, the impact still lingering in her knuckles.

The chain around her neck is tucked inside her shirt now, but the curve of the pendant shows through the fabric, a faint outline that catches the light when she shifts.

“Runs clean,” I say, nodding toward the car, my voice low but carrying in the quiet.

“It should. I rebuilt half your transmission.” She glances up briefly, her eyes meeting mine for just a moment before flicking back to the tablet. “Next time, don’t treat it like a punching bag.”

Her voice lands without heat, but not soft either. She’s holding the line. Pretending we’re still strangers who only know each other through busted machines and invoices that don’t exist. It’s a careful dance, one she’s mastered—keeping people at arm’s length without ever seeming like she’s pushing them away.

“You remind me of someone,” I say, testing the waters.

She tenses. Just slightly. Most people wouldn’t catch it. I do. It’s in the way her shoulders stiffen, the way her hand pauses mid-motion before she forces it to keep moving.

“I get that a lot.”

“Yeah?”

I take a slow step toward the front of the car, keeping my eyes on her. She reaches for a ratchet that doesn’t need movingand sets it down somewhere else, her fingers brushing the metal like she’s grounding herself.

“She was good with engines too,” I say, my voice steady but probing. “Had a brother. Wore a charm kind of like that one.”

Her eyes flick up. Instant. Guarded. Like a wall slamming into place.

“Drop it.”

She doesn’t bark it. She doesn’t flinch. But the way her mouth sets—that sharp, defensive pull—I’ve seen that before. It’s not just a reaction; it’s a warning, one she’s given before to people who got too close.

“You knew her?” I ask, pushing just a little further.

“No.”

There’s no space between the word and her next move. She reaches for a clipboard, flips a page that doesn’t matter, her movements quick and precise, like she’s trying to outrun the conversation.

I move to the side of the bench. Not too close. Just enough to make her pivot to keep space between us. The air shifts, heavier now, like the garage is holding its breath.

I glance down again, toward her collarbone. I can see the chain now. Barely. Gold. Thin. Same diameter, same length. It’s not just a necklace—it’s a tether, something she carries like a secret she can’t let go of.

I reach out. Not fast. Just enough to touch the edge of the charm through her shirt, my fingers brushing the fabric lightly.

“What’s his name?”

She jerks back, her movement sharp, instinctive. “None of your business.”

She backs into the tool cart. The impact knocks a wrench to the floor with a hard clang that echoes in the quiet. It spins once, then settles under her boot, the metal glinting faintly in the light.

“This isn’t a game, Clara,” I say, voice low now, steady but firm. “You know that.”