It was quiet in the Curtis yard, but the garage wasn’t. Metal clanked against metal—sharp, angry sounds that broke through the heavy stillness like someone was trying to punish the damn engine for breathing wrong. Steve was hunched over the car, half lit by the hanging bulb above him, shoulders tense, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. His hands moved fast, rough, like he needed something to keep them busy or he’d explode.

He hadn’t said a word since he stormed in. Just grabbed a wrench, slammed the hood open, and started working like the world depended on it.

Grease streaked up his arms, sweat stuck to his brow, and he wouldn’t let go of that wrench even though his grip was so tight his knuckles had gone raw. One of them was bleeding, just a little line of red mixed in with oil and dirt—but he didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the point.

He still hadn’t looked up when the door creaked. He knew someone was there. He just didn’t move. And then, low and rough like he’d been chewing the words for a while, Steve muttered
 “Don’t—just… don’t start with anything right now, alright?”

His voice cracked at the edge, just for a second, but he caught it quick. Went right back to working. Knuckles bleeding, heart in his throat.