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I took a bite of the cookie—sweet, with a little kick of salt. “Fair,” I said, through the chew. “Still, these are ancient in tech terms.”

Robbie glanced down at the open page. “I figured. Some of the coding syntax doesn’t match the stuff in the online courses Enzo got me.”

That tugged a little at something behind my ribs. I loved Enzo for Robbie, and Robbie for Enzo. The big man was born to care for Robbie, and they fit together like… I don’t fucking know… like two things that fit.

I watched him for a second longer. The kid—God, I still called him a kid, even though I knew he hated that—had come a long way since Enzo and Rio had found him half-dead and terrified, covered in scars and hollowed out with pain.

But now? He looked… not fine. But better. His hair was longer, messier, and he no longer dyed it, so it was a head of blond waves. He wore Enzo’s too-big hoodie like armor, and there was still a shadow behind his eyes if you knew where to look—but he was sitting here. Reading. Studying. Trying .

And baking. Which I loved. “These are dangerous,” I said, holding the half-eaten cookie.

He gave a little laugh and ducked his head. “Logan likes them. Said they help keep the team from yelling.”

“I’ll take five dozen to go.”

That got me a full smile this time. Small, but it stayed.

I moved around the counter, grabbed another cookie, and said, “If you want something better to learn from, I can hook you up. I’ve got access to a few private online archives, and we could print them out.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I know,” I cut in. “I want to.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

I didn’t say you’re welcome. Didn’t need to.

We sat quietly for another moment, the fridge’s hum the only sound between us. The kind of silence that wasn’t tense, just… full. He turned another page as if he wasn’t in a rush, and I suddenly felt awkward in my skin—as if he needed his quiet and I needed…

Fuck knows what I needed, but the air felt too still, too easy, and I wasn’t good at easy.

So I grabbed five more cookies, still warm, stacked them in a napkin, poured myself a second coffee, and headed back out to the ’6868 Charger I’d been elbow-deep in all week.

She was right where I’d left her—hood up, guts exposed, engine halfway through a rebuild that had taken twice as long as it should have.

I wasn’t in a rush. The rhythm of the work mattered more than the finish line, and the owner wanted the best.

I set the coffee on the workbench, the cookies next to it, and leaned over the frame to see where I’d left off.

Carburetor was still being a bitch. I picked up the socket wrench and let my hands do what they knew best, and tuning out the world should’ve been easy.

But the second the silence settled again, my brain betrayed me.

Killian.

Just the thought of his name sent a prickle down the back of my neck, the same as from a fire I’d forgotten was still burning. What a fucking mess that was.

He was everything I shouldn’t want—too clean, controlled, sharp-edged, and shut-down.

He wore suits that cost more than a car and looked at the world as if he were already five moves ahead of it.

But underneath all that polish was a man who had watched me kill— watched me—and still pushed me to my knees to give me what I needed—still touched me like I wasn’t broken glass held together by spit and rage.

He’d been so fucking angry, on the edge of blowing up, and I was getting hard thinking of the way he’d forced himself into my mouth.

I twisted the wrench, metal groaning beneath my hand.

My jaw clenched. He’d looked at me that night as if he couldn’t decide if he hated me or wanted to kill me.

I didn’t blame him for being confused. All I could think about was how his hand had curled in my hair.

The sound he’d made when he came undone and the guilt in his eyes, as though he’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross… insane.

He probably hated himself for it. But I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since I left his apartment.

The wrench clanged into the tray as the garage door creaked open, yanking me out of my spiraling thoughts.

Enzo stepped through, a gust of cool air following him, sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark sunglasses still perched on his head, hauling two heavy boxes that looked like they’d been through a war.

He dumped them onto the workbench beside the Charger with a grunt.

“Turbo kit for the Camaro rebuild coming in Thursday,” he said, brushing dust off his hands .

Robbie came jogging in from the kitchen, his too-big hoodie flapping behind him. The second he spotted Enzo across the bay, he lit up as if someone had flipped a switch. And then? He climbed him like a fucking tree.

Enzo caught him without missing a beat, arms wrapping around Robbie’s waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and they were kissing before I could so much as blink.

Not sweet, not slow—just hungry. As if they’d been apart for weeks, not half a shift.

I grabbed a rag and wiped grease off my hands, pretending not to watch.

Gentle kitten kisses had never done anything for me.

Too slow, too wrapped up in feelings I didn’t always trust. But the way those two went at it?

Like they couldn’t breathe without the other?

I got why people wrote songs about that.

Was it what I wanted with Killian?

No, not with him.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “Get a room.”

“Good idea,” Enzo said, already turning away. “Lunch break.”

Before I could say anything else, Enzo was carrying Robbie out of the door, one hand under his thighs, Robbie clinging to him as if he’d never let go. And then, the garage was empty again .

Just me, the Charger, and five cookies I suddenly wasn’t hungry for anymore.

I was restless, annoyed with myself, and as soon as the day had finished, after Rio told me he wasn’t going home but heading to a fight, there was only one person I wanted to see, if only to get my head straight that he wasn’t everything I wanted right now.

Killian.