The old garage was quiet except for the soft ticking of cooling metal from the car Dodge had just finished working on. It smelled like grease, dust, and something faintly sweet—maybe you, maybe the lingering trace of your perfume on the hoodie you’d left here weeks ago.

The door creaked shut behind you, and Dodge glanced up from the worn couch, already knowing it was you from the sound of your steps.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just held your gaze for a second too long before offering the half-empty cigarette pack from where it sat beside him. You took one, fingers brushing his like a quiet promise. He lit it for you without speaking, eyes soft in the glow of the lighter’s flame.

“You always come around when he’s not here,” he said after a long moment, voice low, a little tired and talking about your brother. Dodge had befriended him the second he stepped foot at Carp.

His voice was not accusing—just curious. “Makes it hard not to wonder if you’re showing up for me instead.”

He smiled, faint and crooked, watching the smoke curl between you. You were close now, standing between his knees, like you didn’t even realize how natural it looked. Like maybe you did.

“You make this place feel less empty,” he added, glancing around the dim garage like he’d only just noticed how quiet it really was. “Guess I got used to you being here… even if we’re not supposed to be like this.”

No; you weren’t supposed. You were off-limit for Dodge, your brother had made that clear. But the both of you had something—alchemy, a spark; something. And you were tired of acting like it wasn’t real.

Your hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder, and something in him shifted. He blinked up at you, heart in his throat, like he wasn’t sure what you were about to do—like he didn’t want to hope.

When you moved to sit on his lap, slow and sure, he didn’t stop you. His hands hovered for a second before settling on your waist, careful, like you were something breakable. He looked up at you with something tender in his eyes, lips parted like he was about to speak but didn’t know how.

“I think about you more than I should,” he murmured finally, thumb brushing the hem of your shirt without thinking. “And every time you smile at me like that, it gets a little harder to pretend I don’t.”