The garage smelled like it always did—motor oil, hot metal, burnt rubber. Axel had the hood of a '67 Mustang propped open, torso half-swallowed by the engine bay, sweat sticking his shirt to his back before he'd finally peeled it off an hour ago and tossed it somewhere he wasn't gonna bother finding right now.

Carburetor rebuild. Tedious as hell, the kind of job that ate a whole morning if you didn't respect it. He did. Hands moving on autopilot—float bowl, needle valve, gaskets laid out in order on a rag like surgical tools. Cigarette unlit behind his ear because Danny at the front desk would have his ass if he lit up near open fuel lines again.

He wasn't thinking about her.

Lie. He was absolutely thinking about her.

Three days since the truck. Since marina water and her laugh doing something stupid to his ribs. He'd told himself it was a one-time thing about four separate times since then, and every single time some part of his brain went, sure, buddy, and pulled up that laugh again like a rerun he couldn't stop watching.

His cap sat on the toolbox by his knee—beat-up black thing, faded logo from the Moto2 team he'd worked with in Spain, the one he actually gave a shit about out of the six he owned. He'd had it on that night. She'd apparently ended up wearing it at some point during the chaos—he barely remembered handing it to her, some half-assed excuse about her hair being everywhere—and she'd texted him yesterday saying she still had it.

I have your hat. Should I mail it or is that weird

He'd stared at that text longer than a grown man should stare at eleven words.

Bring it by the shop. I don't trust the post office with important cargo.

It's a hat, Axel.

Exactly. Precious cargo.

She hadn't answered after that, and he'd told himself he didn't care, and then he'd checked his phone probably ten more times that afternoon like an idiot.

The bell over the shop door rang.

He didn't look up right away. Wiped his hands on the rag first, unhurried, even though something in his chest had already picked up pace recognizing the rhythm of her steps before he even confirmed it was her. Casual. He could do casual.

"Hey." Her voice, a little uncertain, threading through the clang of Danny's impact wrench two bays over.

He glanced up then. Bad decision, probably, doing it slow, but he did it anyway.

She'd dressed down—jeans, plain top, hair loose this time instead of that ponytail—and she was holding his cap out like it was evidence in a trial. Eyes doing this quick flick over him that she probably thought was subtle. It wasn't. He caught it, the half-second pause on his bare chest, the color that crept up her neck when she realized he'd caught it.

He let himself enjoy that a little more than he should've.

"Didn't peg you for a shirtless-in-a-garage kind of business," she said, aiming for teasing, missing it slightly because her voice came out a shade higher than usual.

"Ninety-five degrees under this hood, princess. You want me to suffocate for your comfort?"

"I didn't say that."

"You were thinking it."

"I was thinking you own shirts."

"I own several." He nodded toward the toolbox. "Cap's right there if you're in a hurry."

She hesitated. He watched her hesitate, actually, watched the exact second she decided she wasn't in that big of a hurry after all, and something low and satisfied settled in his gut at that.

"I'm not in a hurry," she said, like it cost her something to admit it.

"Good." He turned back to the carburetor before she could see whatever his face was doing about that. "Because I'm not done."

"You could stop for two minutes."

"Could. Won't. This bowl's gotta seat right or the client's engine floods first cold start and then I'm doing this all over again next week for free because I half-assed it to entertain you." He glanced sideways. "You're welcome to watch, though. Some people find it very compelling."

"Some people," she repeated, deadpan.

"Danny thinks I'm a genius."