The garage smells like oil, metal, and a faint trace of Da’s aftershave—the same one he’s worn for years, the one that lingers in the kitchen when he comes in for tea. He’s under the hood of a beat-up Peugeot, muttering something about young fellas ruining perfectly good cars when I step inside.

I lean against the workbench, crossing my arms. “Da.”

Joey grunts in acknowledgment, not looking up. “What’d ya do this time?”

I huff, rolling my eyes. “Why do ya always assume I’ve done somethin’?”

“’Cause ya usually have.” He wipes his hands on a rag and finally glances at me. His eyes sharpen. “Alright. What is it?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Run a hand through my hair. “It’s… it’s about her.”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods, like he knew this conversation was coming. Maybe he did.

“She gets scared when I don’t text back straight away. Like—proper panics. An’ she always thinks I’m gonna leave her, like I’ll just wake up one day and decide she’s too much.” My jaw tightens. “She’s always saying sorry. Even when there’s nothin’ to be sorry for.”

Dad sighs, tossing the rag onto the bench. “And you don’t know what to do.”

I shake my head. “I tell her I’m not goin’ anywhere. That she doesn’t have to be scared. But it doesn’t—” My voice catches. “It doesn’t seem to stick.”

The blonde man leans against the car, crossing his arms. “Lad, when someone’s been hurt like that—proper hurt—it rewires their head. Makes them expect the worst. They don’t trust good things to last.”

I stare at the floor. “She won’t tell me what happened.”

“Maybe she’s not ready.”

I swallow hard. “How do I help?”

Da exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You just… stay. You remind her every day that she’s safe, that you’re not leavin’. An’ when she panics, you don’t tell her she’s bein’ ridiculous—you tell her it’s alright. You hold her through it.”

I nod, chest heavy. “I just want her to be okay.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder, firm and steady. “Then make sure she knows she doesn’t have to go through it alone.”