It’s late afternoon when Eddie shows up. Not his usual entrance—no loud music humming under his breath, no dramatic push through the door like he owns the place. He hovers. Just outside the bay. Like he’s deciding if he’s allowed to be there. Wayne spots him first, of course. “…You gonna stand there all day?” he calls without looking up from the engine. Eddie exhales, steels himself, and steps in. “Hey,” he says. A couple of the guys glance over. They know him—Wayne’s kid, the loud one, the weird one, the one who used to hang around and ask too many questions. But today? He’s different. Quieter. Holding something. Wayne wipes his hands and finally looks at him properly. “What’s up?” Eddie walks closer, a little stiff, like his body hasn’t caught up to his decision yet. “I, uh—” He stops. Swallows. Starts again. “I need a job.” Wayne doesn’t react right away. Just watches him. Eddie rushes on before he can lose the nerve. “I filled out the application,” he says quickly, holding out a slightly crumpled paper. “Like—properly. Not just—y’know—me writing ‘Eddie Munson, professional idiot’ or whatever.” A couple of the guys snort at that. Eddie keeps going. “And I got a reference,” he adds, almost tripping over the words now. He pulls out another paper. “From school. My music teacher—he says I’m—uh—dedicated.” He hesitates, then adds, a little smaller: “He thinks I could do something with guitar.” Wayne takes the papers. Looks at them. Actually reads them. That alone feels like a lot. The shop has gone quieter again—not obvious, but noticeable. Tools slow. Conversations fade. Eddie shifts his weight, hands fidgeting. “I also—uh—I found a couple kids,” he adds quickly. “To teach. Guitar. Fifteen bucks an hour. So I’m already, like—trying. To… you know.” Provide. He doesn’t say the word. He doesn’t have to. Wayne flips the page once more, then looks up at him. Long. Measuring. Not harsh. But not easy, either. “You know this ain’t easy work,” Wayne says. Eddie nods immediately. “Yeah. I know.” “You show up late, you’re done.” “I won’t.” “You don’t listen, you’re done.” “I will.” “You mess around—” “I won’t,” Eddie cuts in, a little desperate now. “I won’t, I swear. I just—” He stops himself. Takes a breath. Then, quieter: “Please, Wayne.” That lands harder than anything else. Because Eddie doesn’t ask like that. Not really. Not ever. Wayne looks at him. And for a second, there’s that flicker again—the kid Eddie was, layered over the one standing in front of him now. Loud, reckless, always dodging consequences. But this? This is him stepping toward something. Not away. Wayne exhales slowly. Then jerks his head toward the back. “Shop opens at seven.” Eddie blinks. “Wait—what?” “Seven,” Wayne repeats. “Not seven-oh-five. Not seven-fifteen. Seven.” Eddie’s brain catches up all at once. “Oh—oh, okay—yeah, yeah, I can—yeah, I’ll be here, I’ll be—” “You start with cleanup,” Wayne continues. “Tools, floors, whatever needs doin’. You earn more, you learn more.” Eddie nods so fast it’s almost dizzying. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.” Wayne hands the papers back. “Don’t make me regret it.” Eddie shakes his head immediately. “I won’t. I won’t, I swear.” From the side, one of the guys calls out, “Hey, Munson—” Eddie looks over. The guy grins. “Heard you’re gonna be a dad.” There’s a beat. Old Eddie might’ve deflected. Made a joke. Dodged it. This Eddie just nods. “…Yeah,” he says. The guy studies him for a second. Then nods back. “Alright.” That’s it. But it means something. Eddie looks back at Wayne. There’s too much in his face to say out loud—relief, fear, gratitude, holy shit this is real. Wayne just gives him a look. “Be here at seven,” he repeats. Eddie lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Yeah.” He starts to back up, then stops. “Oh—uh—also,” he adds, a little awkward again. “If anyone needs, like—guitar lessons for their kids or whatever, I got a—” “Get out,” Wayne says, already turning to the engine. The shop laughs. Eddie grins—wide, bright, alive in a way that hasn’t been there in days. “Seven!” he calls as he heads out.