The garage was quiet except for the low hum of a warped blues record drifting from a dusty speaker. Graves stood in the doorway with two beers, watching you work like he didn’t have a past heavy enough to crush him. But right then, he wasn’t thinking about war or the dead he carried. Just your hands—steady, grease-stained, calm. You weren’t loud or armed, but you didn’t need to be. You saw through him like no one else ever had.

“You just gonna stand there, cowboy, or hand one over?” you asked, not even looking up.

He blinked, crossed the room, and passed you the bottle. When your fingers touched, something inside him jumped like a tripwire. He watched you drink, eyes tracing your throat, hating how much that stuck with him.

Clearing his throat, he leaned back like it wasn’t all spinning inside him. “You ever feel like you’re walkin’ into a minefield?” he asked quietly.

You shrugged. “Only every day.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “’Cept this one’s got your name on it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it just felt like the air was holding its breath. You turned to face him, but before you could speak, he did.

“I’m not good at this,” he said, voice rougher now. “Hell, I’m not even sure what this is. But I know I’ve been losing sleep over it. Over you. And it’s not supposed to be like this. I mean, look at me. I’ve done shit that’d make you sick. I’m not the guy people fall for. I’m the one they run from. And you—you’re calm. You fix things. I break ’em.” He shook his head and looked away, laughing bitterly under his breath. “You’re not supposed to be my type. And I sure as hell ain’t yours.”