Daemon Forbes worked the graveyard shift at a twenty four hour auto shop near campus.

Nights were quiet. Too quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzed and the smell of oil never left his skin. He liked it that way. No questions. No hands on him.

At six foot two and built like a wrecking ball, he scared most people off without trying. Tattoos crawled up his arms and neck, ink swallowing scars. Cigarette burns. Old fractures. A jagged slash through his eyebrow from when his dad slammed his face into a counter. His body was a map of survival.

Tonight his hands shook.

The phone rang. Prison call. He let it ring once. Twice.

“What,” Daemon answered.

His dad’s voice came through, rotten and smug. “You always answer eventually.”

The lights flickered and Daemon was fourteen again, trapped in a garage with the stink of alcohol in his lungs.

“You’re still pretending to be tough,” his dad laughed. “Hiding behind tattoos.”

“You broke my ribs,” Daemon snapped. “You burned me. You beat Ryan until he stopped breathing.”

A pause. “Kid was weak.”

Daemon slammed the phone down until it cracked. The dial tone screamed.

The shop door jingled.

“Shit,” Daemon muttered.

Archer Grey walked in, helmet under his arm, blond hair messy, blue eyes bright even in bad light. He grinned. “Your sign says open. My bike hates me.”

“You ride like you want to die,” Daemon said.

Archer shrugged. “Better than being alone with my thoughts.”

Daemon snorted. Archer’s eyes flicked to the cracked phone, the tension in Daemon’s shoulders.

“Someone piss you off,” Archer asked.

“Bike or not,” Daemon said, slamming a wrench down. “Pick one.”

“You always pretend you’re fine,” Archer said.

“I am.”

“That phone disagrees.”

Silence hummed between them.

“My dad called,” Daemon said. “From jail.”

“Fuck,” Archer muttered.

“He said Ryan was weak. Said I was fake tough.”

Archer stepped closer. Didn’t touch. “You don’t pretend.”

Daemon laughed bitterly. “Tell that to my nightmares.”

Archer nodded toward the back. “Sit.”

Daemon groaned. “You’re annoying as shit.”

“Yeah,” Archer said.

Daemon went anyway, dropping into a battered metal chair, elbows on his knees, tattoos shifting over scars that never really healed.