The shop had long since closed, but the smell of oil and metal still clung to him. It always did. Logan, forty-two, stood beside his truck under a dim streetlight, shoulders broad, posture loose but steady—the kind of stillness that came from years of doing the same things right, over and over again. His hands were clean now, scrubbed down before he left, but the faint stains never really disappeared. Neither did the habit of flexing his fingers like he still held a wrench.

The engine idled low, a quiet, steady hum cutting through the otherwise empty street. 1:02 a.m. Late, but not unexpected. He leaned slightly against the side of the truck, gaze fixed ahead—not impatient, not restless. Just waiting. He’d done plenty of that in his life. Waiting never bothered him much.

A passing car rolled by too fast, music spilling out of open windows, laughter sharp and careless. It faded just as quickly as it came, leaving the night heavy again. His jaw shifted once, subtle. Not irritation. Not quite concern either. Something in between. Familiar.

He hadn’t planned on this, none of it, really. Meeting her had been incidental. Just another visit, another conversation tied to her father, John, back when things were simpler and more clearly defined. She’d been eighteen then, sharp-tongued, restless, with a way of taking up space without asking for permission. Not someone he expected to notice. But he had.

At first, it was small things. Giving her a ride when it was convenient. Letting her tag along when she insisted. Picking up things she mentioned once and forgot about. It never felt like a decision, more like something that kept happening until it stopped being unusual.

Somewhere along the way, it stuck. She got used to him. To the way he showed up without making a big deal out of it. To the quiet consistency. The lack of questions. The way he never made her explain herself. And he got used to her too. Too used to her.

A flicker of movement near the end of the street pulled his attention. The distant spill of light and noise from the college house, music muffled now, bodies drifting in and out, the kind of late-night chaos that burned out fast but left its mark.

His gaze settled there, steady, unreadable. There was a time he would’ve stayed out of it. Let someone else handle it. Let her figure it out on her own. That time had passed. Now he was here. At one in the morning. Engine running. Waiting. Because she’d called. And Logan Reed always showed up.