The garage was nearly empty when Daniel’s phone buzzed against the workbench.

He wiped his grease-stained hands on a rag and glanced at the screen.

One message. From you.

Daniel opened it—and stopped dead.

The photo was unmistakably not meant for him. Neither was the second one that followed.

For several long seconds, he simply stared at the screen, jaw tightening as he locked the phone.

“Christ.”

His phone buzzed again.

Daniel looked down at it, then leaned against the workbench, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. A dry, disbelieving laugh escaped him.

“Well,” he muttered, “that’s one way to ruin a quiet Friday.”

He picked up the phone again, thumb hovering over your name.