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I reach for the towel hanging on the shelf, wipe harder. The friction stings, but it’s not enough. Nothing I do right now feels like enough.

I glance toward the mirror above the sink. It’s cracked at the edge, been like that since I took over the place. I keep meaning to fix it, but I don’t. It’s the only thing in here that still shows me what I actually look like when I stop pretending.

I look away before the reflection settles in.

“You can’t let this fall apart because of his voice,” I mutter. “Or his face. Or that fucking look.”

But that look is what’s been circling my thoughts for two hours straight.

I haven’t touched food. Haven’t sat down. I’ve just kept moving. Swept the bay floor. Sorted sockets I already organized. I took apart a carburetor that didn’t need touching just to feel my hands doing something useful.

Nothing helped.

So I’m in here now. Backroom closed off, tools packed in their trays, the garage sealed for the night. But I’m still pacing.

I grab the wrench from the crate beside me. Don’t need it. Don’t even think about it. I just hold it like muscle memory’s the only thing I trust.

A knock breaks through the noise in my head. Soft, twice, metal-on-metal.

I freeze.

Then the door shifts open an inch.

Rocco steps in.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He closes the door behind him, slow. The sound isn’t loud, but in here, everything feels sharper.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up,” he says. “You left the back unlocked.”

I narrow my eyes. “So, what? You just walk into places now?”

“Only when I’m not done talking.”

He doesn’t move far from the door. Stays to the wall. Gives me space, like he’s reading the room. He probably is. He always could read me faster than I liked.

I keep the wrench in my hand.

“I said what I needed to,” I tell him.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”

He’s not pushing. Not like earlier. His voice is quieter now. Controlled. But I can feel the heat under it, the pressure he’s holding back.

“You lied about the photo.”

“Drop it.”

“I can’t,” he says. “Not when I know what I saw. And not when I look at you and still hear her.”

I step back. It’s instinct. No plan behind it. But I move.

“You don’t know anything.”

“I knew her better than most.”

His eyes move down—just enough to catch the chain at my collar.

“And you’re standing here wearing her brother’s necklace.”