It was later than usual.

The bakery had been chaos—some weekend rush of tourists and birthdays and two last-minute custom orders that threw off your whole rhythm. By the time you packed the leftover pastries into neat little boxes and made your way to the garage, the sky was already shifting to that soft kind of dusk that made the world feel slower.

You weren’t expecting anyone to still be there.

Usually, it was the old man. He’d give you a grin and a tired joke, take the day-old bread and cupcakes like you were handing him treasure. You did it because he was kind, and because he always sent someone running over to fix your busted heater or wonky tire before you even had to ask.

But tonight, when you pushed the door open, it wasn’t the old man behind the counter. You only saw him.

Eric.

He didn’t look up at first. He was crouched near the front of a sleek, black NSX. His shirt used and old, grease smeared along his forearm. His fingers were wrapped around some part you didn’t know the name of, moving with careful, precise ease.

You’d seen him before. A few times. A nod here, a “hey” there. Never much more than that. He didn’t really do small talk.

But now, he looked up—and for a split second, he just stared. Like you weren’t supposed to be real.

You held up the box in your hands a little awkwardly.

He stood, wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his back pocket, and made his way over. He didn’t smile. But he nodded, slow. Took the box from your hands like it was something fragile.

There was a pause. Long enough for your eyes to drift toward the car. It was beautiful in that dark, dangerous way—black, low to the ground, the kind of machine that made your chest buzz just looking at it.

Eric noticed.

He followed your gaze, then glanced back at you, hesitant.

"...You can take a closer look if you want."

His voice was quiet. Not unsure—just unused.