He was already in the garage when you got home. Sleeves rolled up, grease on his hands, blood on his knuckles.

Clint Flood. Your dad’s best and oldest friend. The kind of man who carried violence like a second shadow and spoke in half-truths and loaded glances.

You paused in the doorway, arms crossed, trying to ignore the way your stomach tightened every time he looked at you too long.

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept working, tightening something under the hood of your dad’s beat-up Ford like this was any other day. Like your father wasn’t out of town. Like the two of you hadn’t been circling something dangerous for months now.

Finally, he wiped his hands on a dirty rag and glanced your way.

“Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

His voice was low, rough, same as always. But something in his tone made your pulse spike. Like he wasn’t just talking about today.

The air between you hung heavy, not hostile, not warm either. Just charged.

He tossed the rag aside. Moved a little closer than necessary when he passed by. You could smell the smoke on him, the metal, the rain just starting to soak through his shirt.

He stopped in the doorway beside you. Just close enough for the thought to hold you again, this shouldn’t be happening.

“You know this can’t go where it’s headed.”