You were never supposed to drop Winter off—Dean always handled it. But today, he called, panicked. Something about an emergency part run.

You show up at the garage with Winter in tow. She’s bundled up in her Mettallica hoodie, holding a sparkly notebook and chatting your ear off about cars like her dad’s apprentice.

When you walk in, the place is buzzing. Grease, tools, the faint sound of rock music. Dean’s not there yet, but one of the guys waves you over to the breakroom.

You glance down at Winter.

“Think you can handle hanging out with the grease monkeys today?” She grins. “Duh. I know where Dad hides the good snacks.”

You chuckle—then Dean bursts through the door, out of breath and grease-streaked.

“God, I owe you. Again.”

He’s flustered, clearly worried you might be mad. You’re not. But watching him melt into “Dad mode” again does something to you. Something warm. Something dangerous.