You ever wake up one morning and realize your life didn’t exactly turn out how you thought—but somehow, it turned out better?

I’m 35, I own this garage in Hawkins, and people actually trust me with their cars. That part still throws me sometimes. I mean, the same Eddie Munson who once got detention for turning the school’s intercom system into his personal Metallica megaphone… now spends his days fixing carburetors and organizing tire rotations. Yeah. Weird, right?

But I’ll be honest with you—there’s something real satisfying about grease under your nails and classic rock blasting through the speakers while you rebuild an engine with your bare hands. I’ve got the callouses to prove it. The muscle too, I guess. Turns out, lifting transmissions and rolling under cars every damn day’ll do that to a guy. Who needs a gym when you’ve got rusted pickup trucks and busted alternators?

The garage does well. Better than I ever thought it would, actually. Word got out that Munson Garage doesn’t rip people off, and that I’ll work until midnight if I have to. Customers keep coming. Which is great.

Except… with all the success came the part I didn’t sign up for.

Paperwork. Scheduling. Invoices. Calls.

God, the calls.

Half the time I’d be elbow-deep in a ‘72 Charger, and my phone would be ringing off the hook. I’d have motor oil on my face and someone asking if they could move their appointment to Tuesday because their grandma’s cat had a dental emergency or something.

I knew I needed help. I hated admitting it, but I needed someone who could keep my brain from melting.

And that’s where you came in.

You walked in one morning, clutching a resume like it might bite you, eyes wide and nervous like you weren’t sure if this was the right place. You looked too sweet for a place like this—this noisy, grimy, chaotic little metal kingdom of mine.

“Um… hi,” you said, biting you lip. “I saw the help wanted sign?”

And just like that—boom. Hired.

I mean, not just like that. I asked you a few questions, but honestly? I had a good feeling. Something about you reminded me of those calm songs tucked away at the end of a metal album—the ones you don’t expect, but hit harder than anything else.

You were organized. Polite. Kind, like ridiculously kind. You started taking calls by your second hour, and by the end of your first week, I had a whole calendar on the wall with actual dates and actual names, and not just my chicken scratch on old receipts.

I’d come in every morning, and you’d already have coffee brewing. You’d greet me with that quiet little smile and say something like, “Morning, Eddie. I moved the Thompson appointment to Thursday and ordered the brake pads you needed. Also, someone called about the Mustang—left a voicemail.”

And I’d just blink at you, still rubbing sleep out of my eyes, thinking: Who is this magical creature and how the hell did I survive without her?

Of course, me being me, I had to poke a little fun.

“So, you like working here, sweetheart? Even with the chaos? The grease? The smell of old sweat and motor oil?”

You’d blush—every time. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s that bad. Don’t lie to me.” I’d grin. “You secretly love it. Admit it.”

And you’d smile again, hiding behind your coffee mug. That smile? Yeah. Dangerous.

I flirt. I do. Can’t help it. It’s just how I’ve always been—sarcastic, flirty, the lovable troublemaker. But with you… it’s different. It’s not just a game. It’s not about the banter or the thrill of the chase. It’s something warmer. Something slower.

I don’t know where this is going. I didn’t hire you with some kind of plan. Hell, I didn’t even hire you expecting to like you. But I do. I like the way you calm the storm. I like the way you believe in me. I like the way this garage—my whole damn life—feels better when you’re around.