CHAPTER 1 â YOUR CAR'S FUCKED â
summary: hungover and post-hookup, you're more than eager to get home. one problem â your car's broken down in a town you've never heard of. lucky for you, there's a mechanic there to help. unlucky for you, he's an asshole.
author's notes: oh my god finally! my first proper long work. i hope you enjoy!! sorry if you dont see much of me after this cuz its exam season. babys first arthur fic xx
Your vision blurs at the edges, little black spots dancing like theyâre mocking you. Your head is pounding so hard it feels detached from your body. Your mouth tastes like regret and cheap alcohol, and your stomach flips every time you move too fast, and worst of all, your poor Mini Cooper â newly bought, secondhand â now sputtering on the side of the road at the asscrack of dawn. Youâre in the middle of nowhere; just trees and greenery, with maybe a cafe and some smaller shops dotted around. You laugh (and regret it, because your head spikes with pain) when you see horses and cows and sheep. Jesus, you really are nowhere.
You had been at a birthday party the night before, and all you could remember after doing shots was waking up with a man you didn't know. The shame crawls back up your spine just thinking about it. The hurried, half-dressed escape. The way you didnât even look back, just grabbed your things and left. When your car started faltering through a town youâd never been through on your way to a long journey back home, you were almost in tears. You rifled through the glovebox to find anything â this was a second-hand car, and you hadnât put anything in the glove yet. You havenât even had the car long enough to put anything in it. No tissues. No charger. You laugh sadly as you see a pack of cigarettes with no lighter.
âShit,â you groan, which seems to be the only word you can say before you feel the tears sting your eyes. Your hands drop uselessly into your lap as your chest tightens, that awful, helpless feeling creeping in.Â
You reach for your phone, in a flash of supposed ingenuity, before realising it's dead.Â
âFucking grand,â you spit, angry at yourself, because this was surely some sort of divine karma for not opting to round up to 2 dollars at the counter last week.
Checking the car mirror as you wallow in uncertainty, you ponder how the fuck you even got here. Red-rimmed eyes with your smudgy mascara, chapped lips rubbed raw from biting anxiously, and hair all messed up â worse, because you know itâs not just from sleep. Someone elseâs hands were in it, tugging, pulling. Anger hits faster than embarrassment this timeâsharp, immediate, cutting through the fog in your head.Â
Because there they are, impossible to miss. Dark marks scattered along your neck, blooming down into your collarbones, disappearing beneath the neckline of that stupid minidress you didnât even remember putting on.
Heat floods your faceâpart humiliation, part frustration, part something uglier you donât even want to name. You donât remember asking for that. You barely remember anything at all, and somehow that makes it worse.
You slump back in your seat, blinking hard, the pounding in your head syncing up with the irritation buzzing under your skin.
Not by muchâbut late enough that he skips going back for the coffee he left on the counter and just grabs his keys, dragging a hand through his already messy hair on the way out. He can grab one on the way, even if he actually prefers tea, but the only cafe in this town makes it all wrong. The morning is quiet, slightly unnatural way country roads get at this hour. Trees line the stretch ahead, long shadows still clinging to the edges of the road. No real noise except his truck and the low hum of The Smashing Pumpkins fade into the morning.
The cafĂŠ he usually stops at is just ahead. Its faded sign is wearing, a crumbling illustration of a coffee bean, lights already flicking on inside, someone probably turning the machine on behind the counter. He stops on the opposite side of the cafe, kindly dubbed as âArthurâs spotâ by the teenage employee who always opens.
Heâs already parking thinking about nothing more complicated than caffeine, when the sound cuts through â not loud enough to demand attention but an uneven splutter. A car thatâs trying very hard to keep going and inevitably failing. Arthur eases off the thought of coffee immediately without really meaning to.
Ahead, right beside the cafĂŠ, a small Mini Cooper jerks forward awkwardly, in all honestly, a little pathetically. It hesitates, coughs, then dies. It rolls a little farther before coming to a complete stop in the roadside parking outside the cafĂŠ. Not tucked away, but right in view of the glass windows and the early morning routine inside. Arthur winces and watches it for a beat longer than necessary. Coffee can wait. Heâs more of a tea guy anyway. He signals, pulls over ahead of it, and kills the engine.
The air outside is cool and sharp, the crispness in the air indicating autumnâs arrival. Arthur shuts his door and starts walking back. As he gets closer, the Mini comes into clearer view. It's an older car, tired like it's been pushed a little too far and hasnât had much help along the way. His eyes dart around methodically to see if thereâs anything visibly wrong. But one thing perplexes him. The driver is showing no signs of getting out. Just frantically rummaging in the glovebox, another hand on her head.
He stops at the window, lifts a hand, pauses just long enough to register that something isnât right. Arthur knocks on the glass, then waits.
Two abrupt knocks on your window make you jolt so hard your spine hits the seat, breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat. For a second, your brain refuses to process it as real, chalking it up to another fragment of the headache, another symptom of the morning trying to split you open.
Your head turns slowly toward the window. Thereâs someone there, standing just beyond the glass. You blink, trying to focus properly, vision still unstable at the edges, and the world outside starts to sharpen into shape. A man. Leaning slightly toward the car. One hand still raised from the knock, the other resting loosely at his side. Sleeves rolled, hair messy in that way that looks unintentional but still somehow put together. Heâs watching you, not in a way that feels invasive, but in a way that says heâs already figured out something is wrong.
It takes you a second too long to fully register that this is real, that youâre not imagining him along with everything else this morning. Then your stomach drops slightly as you realise youâre no longer alone in the middle of nowhere beside a cafĂŠ you donât recognise. He taps the glass again, softer, like heâs checking youâre actually conscious. You crack the window just enough to breathe.
The man opens his mouth, but you swiftly cut him off.Â
âLook,â you say, your voice rough, thinner than you mean it to be. You drag a hand over your face like you can wipe the whole morning off with it. âItâs been a hard⌠whatever this isâmorning, night, I donât even know anymore.â
You let out a small, humourless breath, shaking your head slightly.
âIâm notââ you hesitate, swallowing. âI donât have the energy for, like, conversation right now. Or⌠anything, really.â
For a moment, he doesnât respond. When you glance back up, his expression has shifted. He doesnât look annoyed or dismissive, just more focused, like heâs adjusting to you rather than pushing against you.
âAlright,â he says after a moment, voice quieter now, steadier. âFair enough.â
The lack of pushback catches you slightly off guard, and you find yourself looking at him properly for the first time, squinting against the light. Thereâs no urgency in him. He has a steady sort of presence that feels oddly out of place against everything else about this morning. You actually look at him, and with a sinking heart, you realise heâs hot. Fuck, of course he is. Of courseâon top of everything elseâthis is the moment your life decides to introduce a man who looks like that. Youâve just told him, essentially, to go away, and youâre sitting here looking like a mess.
He doesnât react to the way youâve clearly decided to look anywhere but directly at him. If anything, he just shifts his weight slightly, the mystery man giving you space to breathe. God, he probably wants to get away from you as quickly as possible.
âRight,â he says after a moment, glancing briefly toward the front of the car before looking back at you. âYour carâs fucked, or so I think.â
You blink dumbly, taken aback by his words, almost as if heâs commenting on the weather instead of delivering what feels like the final blow to your already disastrous morning. Any lingering chance of being charmed by him slips clean out from under you, gone as quickly as everything else seems to be today.
âOh,â you say, because what else is there to say to that?
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, a little smile on his face undoubtedly due to your dumbfounded expression.
âLook, it's best if I give it to you straight. Donât want poor city girl stuck in this place.â
Your grimace deepens, and youâre a bit hurt at his tone.
âCarâs not making it an hour like this,â he says, voice carrying just enough to reach you without him looking back. âYou can try, if you want.â
You sigh again. âDo you know where I could go to get it fixed, or even just looked at? I live an hour away, and Iâve never been in this tiny town before.â
He doesnât answer straight away. Instead, Hot Mean Guy studies the car for a moment, then gestures vaguely over his shoulder with his thumb, the movement casual.
âYeah,â he says. âThereâs a place a few minutes from here.â
Your shoulders drop slightly in relief. âOhâokay, good. I was worried Iâd have toââ
âItâs mine,â he adds, almost as an afterthought.
âCouple minutes down the road,â he adds, tone still even, still carrying that same blunt edge. âNot much else around here unless you feel like waiting a few hours for someone whoâll charge you double and do half the job.â
That shifts something immediately. You look at him properly now, your eyes moving over details you hadnât fully registered beforeâthe rolled sleeves, the grease on his workshirt under his jacket, the way he carries himself like none of this is unfamiliar.
âI just asked you where to find a mechanic,â you say, dragging a hand over your face again, âwhile you were standing right there looking exactly like one.â
Thereâs a flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth, subtle but definitely there. âYeah,â he says. âYou did.â
You let your head fall back again with a quiet groan. âGreat. Really making a strong impression here.â
He laughs at you meanly, which only makes you feel something in your stomach.
âIâve got a truck,â he says, nodding once toward the road. âCould tow it back and save you trying to limp in those shoes of yours.â
He glances at you briefly, then, eyes flicking over your faceânot lingering, not soft, but checking. Like heâs gauging whether youâre going to argue, or shut down, or just stand there looking like the dayâs already wrung you out.Â
You nod with a relieved smile, the kind that comes more from exhaustion than genuine ease, but itâs still somethingâstill better than being stuck here alone with a dead phone and a car that clearly isnât going anywhere on its own. The tension in your shoulders loosens just slightly as you shift in your seat, as if the decision itself has taken some weight off you.Â
âYeah,â you say, quieter now, like youâre only just catching up to whatâs being offered. âThat would be⌠really helpful. Thank you.â
He gives a small nod in return, like itâs nothing out of the ordinary for him, already half-turning his attention toward the front of the car again. Thereâs no fuss in the way he moves, no dramatics about it.
âPop the hood for me?â he asks.
You lean forward, fumbling briefly for the latch near your knee. Your fingers catch it on the second try, and thereâs a small click as you pull it.
 He smiles, and it catches you off guard more than it probably should. Itâs not dramatic or overly familiar, just a small, easy expression that seems to sit naturally on his face as he turns his attention toward the engine. Still, something about it lands strangely in your chest, unexpected enough that your stomach gives a faint, uneasy flip.
He pokes around a little bit under the hood, shifting pieces of the engine slightly as he looks, his attention fully absorbed now in the rhythm of checking, listening, adjusting. Thereâs a quiet confidence in the way he works that makes it feel less like something is wrong and more like something is being solved, even if you donât understand any of it.
Inside the car, the stillness starts to feel heavier than helpful. Youâve never been good at sitting in uncertainty, especially not when something is happening just a few steps away that you canât quite see properly. Curiosity starts to win out over exhaustion.
You open the door carefully, the sound of it breaking the quiet, and step out into the morning air. Itâs cooler than you expected, sharp enough that it wakes you up a little more than anything else has so far. You take a moment to steady yourself before walking around to the front of the car.
Arthur doesnât see you approaching, focused on what heâs doing, hands resting near the edge of the engine bay as he leans in slightly. Only when he's leaning down to look closely at the engine does he see a pair of pink heels next to his boots. The contrast makes the corner of his lips lift before heâs fully aware of it.
âYou didnât have to get out,â he says, voice even, not looking at you yet.Â
You shift your weight slightly, arms folding loosely against the cold. âYeah, I know. I just couldnât sit in there anymore.â
And while this mysterious girl hesitates, caught somewhere between exhaustion and reluctant trust, he finds himself watching you a second longer than necessary. Heâs intrigued to say the least. Youâre a whirlwind, rushing into this sleepy town. The smudgy mascara, red eyes, clearly crying â though Arthur doesn't blame her. An hour away from home, and with a hangover, heâs guessing, and from what he can see, post-party, and his eyes â not purposefullyâ notice the red marks trail down your collarbones into the tiny dress youâre wearing. Typical, he thinks as he rolls his eyes, just another entitled big town girl rolling through. Heâs had his fair share. Though youâre shockingly pretty, heâll fix the car, send you on your way, and thatâll be the end of it.Â
âDo you need a jumper? Itâs pretty cold out.â Â
Before you can answer, he undoes his zip-up and drapes it around your shoulders. Itâs warm from him still, heavier than expected, settling around you all too naturally.
âHere,â he adds simply, already half-turned back toward the car like itâs just part of the process.Â
It feels slightly too big, sleeves bunching at your arms, the scent enveloping you, somehow soothing the noise in your head. You hesitate for a second, hands curling loosely into the fabric like youâre not entirely sure what to do with it, but Arthur has already turned back toward the car. And if he notices the way you go still for half a second too long after it settles around youâwarm from him, heavy in a way that feels oddly groundingâhe doesnât show it.
Ouch, you think. Does he just give any girl he sees on the side of the road his jumper?
Itâs petty, and you know it is almost immediately, especially as you stand there watching him work like youâre the one misreading something simple. It's just fabric over your shoulders because you were cold, and he noticed.
Your gaze drifts past him, past the raised hood and the quiet focus of his hands â lost staring for a second or two â and lands on the small cafĂŠ next door. Itâs more charming than you first registered through the fog of your morningâplants along the windows, soft light inside, the faint movement of someone behind the counter who looks barely older than a teenager trying to look awake.
ââŚsounds like itâs struggling to turn over,â heâs saying to himself â and you find it endearing before you scold yourselfâ crouched slightly near the hood, voice calm, like this isnât the worst morning of your life. âCould be the battery, could beââ
âHey,â you start, your voice a little uncertain at first. You clear your throat, trying again, a bit steadier. âUmâdo you maybe want a coffee or tea? From there. Itâs⌠the least I could do.â
Arthur doesnât answer straight away. He finishes what heâs doing first, like making sure the car is in a stable enough place before he pulls his attention away. When he straightens, he looks over at the cafĂŠ, then back to you. Thereâs no hesitation in him, just a simple acceptance of the offer.
âYeah,â he says, roughly. âThatâd be nice. Thank you.â
He wipes his hands on his shirt before adding, a little nicer, âWhatever they make there, Iâll take it. Donât worry too much about it.â
You turn to go, but spin back around with a bite of your lip. âCould I maybe get a name for that cup?â
Youâre still standing there in his hoodie, hair slightly windswept from the cold, and Arthur findsâbriefly, annoyinglyâthat his usual annoyance about girls like you doesnât sit quite as cleanly as it normally does.
Town girls usually come through loud, impatient, half-checked out of whatever place theyâve ended up in. They donât linger. They donât look at him like theyâre trying to decide whether to trust him while simultaneously acting as if theyâve already decided not to. They donât stand there wrapped in something that still smells faintly like him, looking like they donât quite know what to do with the fact theyâve been looked after.
âArthur,â he adds simply, like it shouldâve been obvious.
His attention doesnât quite snap back to the engine the way itâs supposed to when you turn.
You step into the cafĂŠ and the warmth inside hits immediately, soft and almost disorienting after the sharp morning air, and youâre suddenly very aware of how you must look standing there in the doorway. The bell above the door gives a small, unnecessary jingle that makes you flinch internally more than it should.
The place is quiet in that early-hour way, only half-awake. A teenager behind the counter looks up at you from where theyâre half-slumped against the espresso machine, blinking like theyâre trying to decide if youâre real or part of their shift hallucination.
You become very aware, very quickly, of yourself.
The hoodie that isnât yours. The messy hair. The tired face you didnât get to fix. The fact that youâre still not entirely sure what or who you did last night, and yet youâre now standing in public trying to order coffee like youâre a functioning person. Arthur is outside. Still completely unbothered by the fact that your entire morning has detonated and somehow heâs the only stable thing left in it. That thought lands again, unhelpfully clear now: he does know what heâs doing. Not just with the car, either. With everything, it seems.
Looking at the engine, Arthur doesnât notice the way the cafĂŠ door swings shut behind you, the soft bell fading into the background. His focus has narrowed again, the rest of the world dimming out as he leans further into the engine bay.
What started as a rough idea has settled into something clearer now, each small check confirming the last. He listens first, head tilted slightly, like the engine might give something away if heâs patient enough. Then his hands follow, steady and deliberate, tracing connections, testing tension, adjusting without hesitation. Itâs methodical, logical â exactly what Arthur loves. Thereâs no frustration in it, no second-guessing. Itâs kind of a quiet certainty, like heâs seen this before in a hundred different variations and knows how it usually ends.
He shifts slightly, reaching deeper in, fingers tightening something that had just enough give to be wrong. Thereâs a pause after, not idleâintentional. He listens again.
Better. Not fixed, but closer. His gaze flicks across the rest of the engine, running through the possibilities quickly now, ruling things out one by one. Whateverâs caused it isnât catastrophic, but it isnât something heâs going to fully sort out on the side of the road either. Not properly and not in a way heâd be satisfied sending you off with.
Mystery Girl comes back with 2 coffee cups in hand. Youâre closer than before now, two cups in your hands, his hoodie still draped over your shoulders like itâs settled there for good. You mustâve gone to the bathroom and freshened up â no more streaky makeup, just a fresh face. For a second, he just takes that inâthe contrast of it, the way you look a little less like youâre about to fall apart and a little more like youâre holding yourself together. The biggest difference, though, is the slight smile on your face.
His gaze drops briefly to the cups, then lifts back to your face, and thereâs something warmer in it than before. Still not chummy, but less distant. âCheers,â he says, like itâs nothing.
He takes it from you, fingers brushing yours for just a second longer than necessary this time. Itâs not enough to be obvious, but enough that it doesnât feel entirely accidental either. He doesnât pull away quickly, either. He reads the name on your cup.
âReader. Nice to put a name to the car.â
âThe pleasureâs all mine,â you say, a little exasperated, and this time heâs looking at you properly.
Without the mess of last night on you, you look less frazzled; your kind eyes and your pretty smile are all too captivating. But he snaps out of it. God, heâs only helping out, and clearly youâre just itching to get back, probably to a boyfriend or something. Heâs trying very hard to ignore the reddish hickies dotting you. Youâre just passing through. Whateverâs brought you here, it isnât him.
He glances down at the cup, then back up again, something faintly amused settling at the corner of his mouth.
âYou went with coffee,â he notes, tone light.
You hesitate, suddenly aware of it. âWas that wrong?â
He shakes his head slightly, a quiet exhale of a smile following.
âNo,â he says, âNot wrong. Just means you donât know me yet.â
He takes a sip, eyes still on you for a second longer than necessary before his attention shifts back toward the car, like heâs giving you space again without fully stepping away.
âI usually go for tea,â he adds, almost as an afterthought.
He takes a small sip, more out of habit than anything, then glances back toward the open hood, the practical side of him settling back in.
âItâll run,â he adds, nodding faintly toward the car. âAt least enough to get moving. But I wouldnât trust it for an hour drive like that.â
He looks back at you then, a little more direct this time, like heâs offering something rather than just stating it.
 âIf youâre alright with coming back, I can take it there and sort it properly.â
Mystery Girl bites her lips into a pout, and worry graces her face, making something arise within Arthur before he knocks it off.
ââŚYouâre not going to, like, disappear with my car, are you?â you ask hesitantly.
âNot a great business model,â he says, tone easy. âHard to run a garage if I start stealing the cars that show up.â
That makes you laugh, a strange, proud feeling purring in Arthurâs chest. The tinkling sound of your laughter goes straight to my head, pocketing it and saving it.
ââŚOkay,â you say, a little more certain this time. âYeah. Iâll come.â
Arthur hooks the truck up to your Mini with the kind of efficiency that suggests heâs done this more times than heâd probably admit. The chain clicks into place, the car shifting slightly as it settles behind his vehicle, obedient now in a way it wasnât an hour ago.
 You keep checking the side mirror, antsy to look presentable, for no specific reason at all. You adjust your hair once, then again, then stop when you realise thereâs nothing you can actually fix from here.Â
Your eyes are almost magnetically attracted to his hands. His large hand effortlessly steering, sleeves rolled, and veins popping. His forearms are tanned, so tanned. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely, driving steady like the road itself isnât worth rushing. Arthurâs focused profile sits just ahead of you, jaw relaxed but intent, eyes tracking the road with the kind of concentration that makes it look easy. Itâs annoyingly steady. And annoyingly hot.
â...and thatâs basically it, I think, once I get to the garage, itâll be brand new. Well..â
Heâs in the middle of speaking to you when it finally registers with him.
âYou okay there?â he asks, voice lightly smug but like heâs trying to mask it for your sake.
Your throat tightens slightly, and you cough, a little too quickly, being caught staring so shamelessly.âYeah,â you manage, immediately too casual. âFine. Justâroad. Distracting.â
Arthur hums once, like heâs not buying it at all, but he doesnât push. His attention returns to the road, though the corner of his mouth lifts slightly anyway. Â
Youâre antsy in his car, fidgeting, tapping your fingers against the skin of your bare thigh. The crackling sound of his radio fills the space between you, some old Arctic Monkeys song playing.Â
âItâs not far,â he says. âYouâll survive.â
The road narrows as they turn off the main stretch, trees closing in a little tighter on either side like the town is trying to keep this place tucked away. The truckâs engine shifts pitch as Arthur slows, guiding them down. The garage comes into view gradually rather than dramaticallyâno big signage trying to impress anyone, just a functional building thatâs clearly been here long enough to earn its status . The roller door is already halfway up, and thereâs the faint smell of oil and metal in the air before you even properly stop.
âWeâre here,â he adds, matter-of-fact. âYou can wait in the truck if you want,â he says, then corrects himself slightly. âOr come in. Up to you. Just have a seat inside while I get your Mini in here.â
You hop out of his big truck, trying to land carefully in the heels that could definitely roll your ankle. He doesnât make a thing of it. Just moves around to the back, focus shifting immediately back to the job in front of him. The earlier conversation seems to get filed away somewhere for laterâor maybe just not at all.
He unhooks the chain without fuss, the motions efficient and unshowy, like his hands know exactly what theyâre doing without needing permission from anything else. Your Mini shifts slightly as itâs freed, settling back onto its own wheels with a quiet weight that makes you realise how dependent youâve been on his truck getting you here at all.
 âCan I borrow your phone, maybe? I should call my friend, tell her Iâm alive.âÂ
He nods easily. âIt's in the jacket I gave you.â
You fish it out, his phone in your hand. The lockscreen is Arthurâsame messy hair, same steady expressionâbut softer somehow, caught candidly smiling. Heâs holding a little girl, tucked into him with a familiarity that doesnât need explaining. Sheâs laughing, his arm around her. You donât mean to stare at it for as long as you do, but it holds your attention anyway. He doesnât look like someone who would end up involved in your kind of morning.
âIs this your daughter?â
He laughs at that, and itâs short, genuine, almost disbelieving, like youâve just suggested something wildly out of character for him.
âNo,â he says, turning his attention back to the road, still smiling faintly. âGod, no. Thatâs my sister. Anyway, the receptionâs better inside, might want to call her there.â
You nod and turn to go inside the garage, which captivates you. Itâs all brick walls and high ceilings. There are racks and racks of toolsâsome neatly arranged, others clearly returned wherever there was space at the time. Metal cabinets line one side, drawers half-labelled or not labelled at all, the kind of organisation that only makes sense to the person who lives in it. Old signs hangs on the walls, slightly crooked, faded advertisements and vintage metal plates that donât match anything else in the room, with huge steel beams within the garage. There are stray gloves everywhere, and tyres stacked up. Itâs big enough to swallow you whole.
You quickly dial your friendâs number, waiting impatiently for her to pick up. You start to lose hope after the 3rd ring, same old anxiousness reappearing in your stomach and then â
Relief hits so fast you finally breathe.
âOh my god,â you breathe, the words coming out in a rush. âOkay, so basicallyââ
âGirl? Whatâs going on? Where are you?â
You let out a small, shaky laugh, dragging a hand over your face as you glance back toward the garage floor again.
âIn the middle of nowhere,â you say, only half exaggerating. âMy car broke down. Iâm at some garageâI donât even know what town this is. Iâm an hour from home.â
âJesus,â you hear your friend process, âI thought you went home with⌠um.. whatâs-his-face?â
âYeah,â you cut in quickly, wincing a little. âI did.â
âOh, my god. Donât tell meââ
âSave the lecture, I'm annoyed at myself too,â you admit, lowering your voice slightly. âI woke up, left, got in my car, and now itâs dead. Like, fully dead.â
âAnd youâre safe?â your friend asks, more serious now.
You look back at Arthur, face concentrated as he pulls your car in, eyebrows furrowed together.           Â
âYeah. Yeah, Iâm safe. Thereâs this guy,â you add, glancing instinctively toward the open space of the garage. âHeâs the mechanic. Itâs his place.â
You huff out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
âHeâs an asshole,â you say, honest without thinking.
âThatâs concerning,â your friend replies immediately.
âHeâs⌠blunt,â you settle on. âAlmost painfully. But he knows what heâs doing. With the car, I mean.â
âAnd with you?â your friend teases lightly.
You roll your eyes, even though she canât see it.
âNo,â you say quickly. âGod, no. If anything, I think he actively dislikes me.â
Thereâs a small pause on the line.
ââŚThatâs not the point.â
You groan softly, dragging a hand over your face again. âI hate you.â
âIâve known him for twenty minutes,â you shoot back. âAnd he called me a city girl like it was an insult. â
You press your lips together, glancing toward the open garage again, where you can just make out movementâhim, probably, still working as if nothing else exists.
"Annoyingly,â you admit under your breath.
Your friend makes a noise of triumph on the other end.
âIâm coming to get you.â
âNo, youâre not,â you say immediately. âItâs fine. He said he can tow it to his garageâwell, weâre already hereâ he's fixing it properly. Iâll just wait it out.â
You hesitate again, then glance down at the hoodie still wrapped around you, at the strange, steady feeling sitting underneath all the chaos of the morning, at the moody man with rolled up sleeves, whoâs working meticulously on your stupid car.Â
ââŚYeah,â you say, quieter this time. âI think I am.â
