Asher hadn’t expected much.

He was just there for a replacement belt and maybe a little peace and quiet while his head stopped spinning from… everything else. He hadn’t expected her—Josie. All sharp edges and grease-smudged elbows, like she’d been carved out of engine parts and spitfire.

And he sure as hell hadn’t expected her to see him.

Not just look at him, not just size him up like most people did—but see him. Like she was checking for cracks before deciding if he could hold weight.

She hadn’t smiled. Not once. But she’d nodded.

Nicely done.

Two words. Tossed at him like she wasn’t sure she wanted to mean them. But they stuck. Lodged somewhere low in his chest and burned a little in the best kind of way.

He stepped back into the light, and for a second, he thought that was it. Moment over. Transaction complete.

And then she hit him with that line.

“Don’t get cocky, pretty boy.”

Asher didn’t move. Just stood there for a beat, blinking at her back, trying not to grin like a complete idiot. Because that—that—wasn’t a brush-off.

That was permission.

That was interest, dressed up like a threat.

He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, watching her work with a casualness he didn’t quite feel. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, voice low, still laced with a little laughter. “But, for the record… you might be the first person who’s ever called me that and didn’t sound like they wanted something.”

She didn’t answer. Of course she didn’t.

But he caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth before she ducked back under the hood.

And that was enough.

He wasn’t trying to get under her skin. Not really.

He just… wasn’t quite ready to leave.

Josie didn’t look up.

Not right away.

She heard him—heard everything—and that was half the problem. Because Asher Cole, leaning in the doorway like he belonged there, like he wasn’t sweating under the weight of all that easy charm, was starting to get under her skin without even trying.

And that was dangerous.

She kept her hands busy. Adjusted the tension pulley. Checked the mount bolts. Wiped sweat from her brow with the inside of her wrist and didn’t say a damn thing.

But she felt him.

Still there.

Still watching.

Most guys would’ve peacocked by now. Leaned in too close or cracked a joke that wasn’t funny. Tried to make the moment something it wasn’t. But he didn’t. He stayed quiet. Present. Like he wasn’t trying to win anything, just trying to be.

It unnerved her. And, maybe, impressed her a little too.

She hated that.

Josie glanced sideways just long enough to catch him in her periphery. Arms crossed, hair tousled, expression unreadable. But his posture was different now. Looser. Less performative. Like he was letting himself be out of place instead of faking like he wasn’t.

She turned back to the engine.

“You keep staring at me like that,” she said flatly, voice half-buried beneath the clank of shifting metal, “I’m gonna start charging you hourly.”

She didn’t smirk.

Didn’t meet his gaze.

But her tone wasn’t sharp this time. It wasn’t a wall—it was a door. One cracked open, barely.

And if he was smart, he wouldn’t try to kick it down.

She finished tightening the bolts, leaned back slightly, and wiped her gloves on her thighs. The sun had shifted, catching on the side of his face now, casting just enough glow to soften the edges. He looked like he belonged on the cover of some glossy prep school magazine—and yet, there was a shadow behind his eyes she hadn’t seen before.

She filed that away. Quietly.

“Hand me the rag,” she added, still not looking at him. Still pretending she wasn’t cataloging every tiny way he hadn’t tried to impress her.

Still pretending she didn’t kind of appreciate it.

Asher blinked.
Once.
Slow.

She didn’t look at him when she said it—“You keep staring at me like that, I’m gonna start charging you hourly”—but the words landed anyway. Right between his ribs, like a perfectly placed elbow.

Not a hit.
Not a flirt, exactly.
But something.

And yeah, he heard the difference.

Her tone wasn’t all barbed wire and warning this time. There was something else beneath it. Something quieter. Something that made him want to grin and not ruin it.

He held the rag in his hand for a second too long before stepping forward and offering it, wordlessly. Letting their fingers brush just slightly in the pass—not enough to cross a line, but enough to make sure she knew he was there. Still in it. Still not scared off.

“You say that like I wouldn’t pay,” he said finally, voice low, warm at the edges. That same smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—not cocky, not smug. Just… there. Half-curious, half-impressed. A little messed up by her in real time.

He watched her tuck the rag into her back pocket without a word, her face unreadable, her hands busy again.

God, she was infuriating. And he liked it more than he should’ve.

Most girls smiled when he teased. Leaned in when he let the charm slip. But Josie?

Josie gave him nothing but tension and grit and one-line rules she never actually said out loud.

It drove him crazy.

He shifted his weight, thumbs hooked into the back pockets of his jeans. The air between them smelled like sun-warmed pavement, motor oil, and her shampoo—something like orange peel and metal.

He wanted to say something else. Something smart. Or smooth. Or just… real.

Instead, he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“You’re a hard person to impress,” he said, like it was a fact. Like it wasn’t wrecking him a little bit.

Then, just barely—
That smirk.

Quick. Crooked. Gone before it could finish forming.

“But I’m not quitting yet.”

He leaned against the workbench, close enough to share the light, not close enough to get in her way. And for once, he didn’t fill the space with words.

He just stayed.

Because she hadn’t told him to leave.

And something about that was starting to feel like permission.

Josie didn’t react.

Not outwardly, anyway.

She took the rag without a word, fingers brushing his like it meant nothing—because it didn’t. Not to her. Not yet. Her expression stayed neutral, jaw tight, eyes locked on the engine like she hadn’t just heard him offer to pay her for attention.

You say that like I wouldn’t pay.

Her teeth pressed lightly together behind her lips.

Because of course he said that.

Because that was the difference between them, wasn’t it? He joked with money. Wielded it like charm, like power, like it was just another part of the persona people let him wear too easily. Like money could buy back awkwardness. Earn access. Smooth out whatever edge he thought she had.

It didn’t.

It never would.

He didn’t know it, but with that one line, he’d threaded himself into every wrong assumption every guy like him had ever made about girls like her. Girls with dirt under their nails and motors in their blood. Girls who didn’t smile on command or melt under compliments. Girls who knew exactly what they were worth, and exactly how often people tried to buy their time instead of earn it.

She said nothing.

Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t flare up or crack back.

Just tucked the rag into her back pocket and went back to work.

Tightened a bolt.

Wiped a drip of oil.

Let the silence hang long enough to make sure he’d feel it.

Then, without looking at him, her voice came low. Even.

“Why do you think you need to impress me?”

It wasn’t flirtation.

It wasn’t accusation, either.

Just a question. Heavy. Honest. Like she was asking him to really look at himself—no mirrors, no spotlight, no audience.

Just the truth.

Because if he was here to prove something, she'd rather he figured out who the hell it was for before he tried proving it to her.

Asher froze.

Not dramatically. Not with a gasp or a stumble or some performative shift in weight. He just… stopped. Stopped breathing for a second. Stopped trying to make the moment easy. Stopped pretending he had an answer lined up.

Her voice had been so calm. So even. Like a scalpel instead of a slap.

“Why do you think you need to impress me?”

He could still feel where their fingers had touched. Just a brush. But now it felt like something colder had settled there—consequence, maybe. Or clarity.

And damn, she was right.

She hadn’t rolled her eyes. Hadn’t scorched him with some clever comeback. She’d done something worse.

She’d asked him a real question.

One that dug beneath the surface, peeled back the lacquered charm he wore like second skin, and pinned him to the concrete floor of that garage with no room to squirm.

He swallowed, jaw tight, the words slow to come.

“I don’t know,” he said, eventually—quietly. No smirk. No shrug. Just the truth, bare and unwelcome in his mouth. “I guess… I’m used to that being the point.”

He looked at her—really looked. At the curve of her spine as she leaned over the engine. The tension in her jaw. The way she hadn’t turned around, hadn’t given him a single out.

“I spent a lot of time learning how to be someone people liked,” he added, voice rougher now. “It’s easier than figuring out what’s underneath.”

He wasn’t sure why he was still talking. Maybe because she hadn’t told him to shut up yet. Maybe because silence with her didn’t feel empty—it felt earned.

So he kept going. Carefully. Like every word was another step on ice he wasn’t sure would hold.

“But with you, I don’t think that works. And I keep showing up anyway, so…”

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh—barely a sound.

“I guess I’m still trying to figure out what that says about me.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t push. Didn’t fill the silence that followed with anything clever.

Because for once, Asher Cole had nothing left to hide behind.

And maybe that was the point.

Josie didn’t move right away.

She kept her eyes on the bolt she wasn’t tightening anymore. One hand resting on the frame, the other curled loosely at her side, a smear of black across the back of her knuckles. Her shoulders rose and fell in a steady rhythm, like she was still working, like she hadn’t heard what he’d said.

But she had.

I’m used to that being the point.
I spent a lot of time learning how to be someone people liked.

God.

She’d lived that line in reverse.

In his world, no one really listened. Not in the way that counted. They nodded, smiled, liked your photos, laughed at your jokes—but they never stopped. Never looked. And why would they? When everything was clean and polished and handed to you with a bow, you didn’t have to learn to read between the silences.

Josie had learned early.

Because she’d had to.

Because the people who were supposed to stay hadn’t. Because she’d sat on too many motel beds wondering why her mom didn’t call, while her dad paced the kitchen trying to pretend they were fine. She’d stopped expecting people to listen the moment she realized their comfort mattered more than her honesty.

So she didn’t talk unless it meant something.

And even now, even after all the people who had tried to wear her down or sweet-talk their way in, she still listened. Still looked when others would’ve turned away. She had empathy. She just didn’t let it walk through the door without checking its shoes.

Josie exhaled slowly.

Then she straightened, cracked her wrists, and finally turned to face him fully. Not to size him up, not to shut him down—but to really see him. Because he’d earned that much. Not with charm. Not with money. But with the one thing most people couldn’t give her.

Honesty.

She nodded once—not at him, not at the moment. At herself.

“I need a break,” she said, reaching for her flannel and slinging it over one shoulder. “And a cigarette.”

She started toward the garage doors, unhurried, a little grease still smeared near her temple.

“It’s not a test,” she added without looking back. “But if you’re gonna keep using me like your therapist, you might as well sit with me.”

Then, more to herself than him, but loud enough that he’d hear it:

“I’m used to it.”

She didn’t slow down.

But she didn’t close the door behind her, either.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Just stood there, staring at the open garage door like it might close if he moved wrong. Like if he said the wrong thing—or too much—she’d shut it for good.

So he didn’t overthink it.

Didn’t try to unpack whatever was unraveling in his chest.

He just followed.

Outside, Josie was already seated on the curb, cigarette in hand, her flannel pooling behind her like she’d dropped the armor but not the edge. She didn’t look up. Didn’t invite him closer.

But she hadn’t told him to leave either.

That was enough.

Asher sat down a few feet away. Not close enough to crowd her. Not far enough to act like he didn’t want to be there. The pavement was warm against his palms, the quiet stretching between them like a dare he wasn’t sure how to meet.

He let it sit.

Let the smoke drift.

Let himself exist without the need to fill the space.

Then, casually—without looking at her—

“You’re not what I expected.”

He paused.

Tugged at a thread on his sleeve.

“I mean that in a good way. I think.”

Another beat. Still no eye contact. Just words, tossed gently into the air between them.

“You don’t… fake it. That’s rare.”

He didn’t explain what he meant. Didn’t go deeper. He didn’t know her. Not really. And he wasn’t about to act like he did.

But he was here.

And for someone like him, that was already more than usual.

So he sat.

Quiet.

Still.

And didn’t make it a thing.

Because she hadn’t walked away.
And he hadn’t wanted to.

She took another drag off her cigarette like the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Like she owned it.

Asher wasn’t used to that.

He was used to people trying to fill the quiet—laughing too loud, asking too many questions, needing constant reassurance that they were still being seen. He was used to being the one giving it.

But Josie didn’t need anything from him.

And somehow, that made him want to stay.

He glanced over, barely.

Her profile was sharp against the wash of golden light, all defined lines and shadow, the smoke curling around her like punctuation. She didn’t look soft. She looked solid. Like she’d carved herself out of something harder than most people could survive.

He didn’t know what to say to that. Not really.

So he settled for:

“You always like this?”

He said it lightly—just enough curve in his voice to keep it from sounding defensive. Not accusing. Just curious.

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t bristle either.

He let out a breath, ran a hand through his hair, and smirked a little to himself.

“Not that it’s a bad thing. You just… make it hard to know where I stand.”

Still no answer.

Still that steady pull in his gut.

He leaned forward a bit, elbows on his knees, letting his gaze trail toward the far edge of the parking lot.

“I think I kind of like that, though.”

That one surprised him—coming out of his own mouth. But it didn’t feel like a line. It wasn’t about winning her over.

It was just true.

He didn’t look at her when he said it.

Didn’t need to.

The silence that followed didn’t feel like rejection. It felt like something waiting to unfold—if he didn’t rush it.

So he stayed there, beside her, in the smoke and the late sun, and let her be whoever the hell she was.

Because for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like pretending to be someone else.

Josie exhaled slow, the cigarette between her fingers burning steady. The smoke curled lazy into the spring air, catching the edge of the light like it had nowhere better to be. Kind of like her.

She liked this part—the quiet. The space between things. Out here, away from the noise of grinding gears and backhanded compliments, she could just breathe. No pressure. No stage.

Just the sound of her boots on pavement and the taste of smoke on her tongue.

She knew the moment he joined her.

Didn’t look.

Didn’t flinch.

But she felt it—him. The weight of someone new trying to settle into her silence without stepping too loud.

He sat a little ways off, giving her that respectful distance, like he understood she wasn’t the kind of girl you scooted up next to just because you wanted something. Like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to get it.

Still, she could feel him watching her. Could feel the words sitting on his tongue, itching to fill the space like most people always did. She almost smiled.

Of course he couldn’t take the quiet.

He tried. She’d give him that. But he still had the itch—hadn’t learned how to sit in silence without squirming. And yet... he wasn’t doing it to impress her, not this time. It didn’t feel like performance. It felt like effort. Real, uncomfortable effort.

She took another drag, resting her arm on her bent knee, and listened as he rambled his way through thoughts he hadn’t quite shaped yet.

You don’t fake it.
You’re not what I expected.
I think I kind of like that.

It wasn’t bad.

It just wasn’t necessary.

Josie didn’t need people to say the things they felt. She could see it. Feel it. The shift in weight. The flick of a glance. The way someone breathed when they weren’t pretending.

Still, she didn’t shut him down.

Didn’t make it cold.

Just let it hang between them—those half-confessions dressed up like small talk.

After a long pause, she flicked the ash from her cigarette and finally turned her head toward him, eyes squinting in the light. Studying him.

"You stand at about five-five,” she said, out of nowhere, tone flat. “Five-six on a good day.”

Blunt. Borderline mean.

But the corner of her mouth tugged—just barely.

The tease was there, subtle and unpolished, like she was still figuring out how to offer softness without giving too much away. Her version of a compliment was always going to sound like a jab. It was safer that way.

She took one last drag, let the smoke trail past her lips like a dare, and dropped the cigarette to the pavement. Ground it out beneath the toe of her boot.

“You still talk too much,” she muttered, glancing sideways at him, a flick of dry amusement in her tone.

Then she straightened, brushed her hands off on the thighs of her coveralls, and looked at him with that same unreadable calm. Not dismissive. Not disinterested. Just... done entertaining for now.

“It’s been fun teaching you, pretty boy,” she said. “But I’ve got real work to do.”

She turned toward the garage, taking a few slow steps before pausing just at the edge of the sunlight. The door cast a long shadow, splitting her figure in half—half in, half out.

She didn’t look back when she said it. Just tossed it behind her like it didn’t matter.

“I’m off at five.”

A beat.

“If you’re bored, swing by. I’ll show you a few things about that shiny toy of yours. Might save you from getting ripped off next time.”

And then she disappeared back inside.

No wink. No smile. No promise.

Just a crack in the armor—and the sound of an engine waiting to be fixed.

Asher didn’t move.

Not at first.

He stayed right there on the curb, palms pressed to the pavement, heart thudding somewhere stupid between his ribs and his throat.

Five-five. Five-six on a good day.

He should’ve rolled his eyes. Should’ve fired back something smooth, something cocky, something that would’ve fit the version of him everyone else expected. But he didn’t.

Because when she said it?
It hadn’t sounded like an insult.
It had sounded like permission.

Permission to laugh. To exist. To stay in the space she carved out beside her without having to audition for it.

And when she said, “I’m off at five,”—
That wasn’t small talk. That was a door. Not wide open. Not obvious. But cracked.

And for Josie Rhodes?
That was practically a declaration of war and affection in one breath.

He stared at the spot where her boot had crushed the cigarette, the faint curl of smoke still rising in the air. Her scent lingered—mechanic shop, metal, citrus shampoo, and something almost sweet under all the grit.

He stood slowly, brushing his palms on the back of his jeans, and looked at the garage.

He wasn’t sure what exactly had just happened between them.
But it hadn’t been nothing.

And when she disappeared back inside without waiting for a response, without asking him to come or stay, he realized something:

She didn’t need him to impress her.
She just needed him to show up.

So he did the only thing that felt right.

He picked up her crushed cigarette with two fingers, turned toward the trash can near the lot, and dropped it in. Then he glanced down at the oil streaks still staining his gloves and smiled—slow, real, a little shaken.

Five o’clock.

He could work with that.

The garage always got weirdly quiet around closing time.

Not silent—there was still the soft clatter of tools being put away, the occasional burst of laughter from the back lot, the metallic grind of a rolling door locking into place—but it was a different kind of noise. The kind that signaled the day was winding down, that people were clocking out in more ways than one.

Josie wiped her hands on a fresh rag and tossed it into the bin. She didn’t need to check the time. Her body already knew. Every muscle in her back ached just enough to tell her it was 4:45.

The guys were wrapping up—grabbing their water bottles, cracking jokes, slinging backpacks over grease-slick shoulders.

“Staying late, Rhodes?” someone called from the far bay, teasing.

Another voice chimed in, “Let me guess. Pretty boy needs a private tutorial?”

Josie didn’t bite. Just flicked her wrist in a lazy middle finger and kept cleaning up. Let them talk.

They always did.

Derek—balding, sarcastic, and perpetually two steps behind on engine work—paused by the door on his way out, grinning like a fox.

“You know, if you really wanted to get his attention, you could just key his fancy ride,” he offered. “Might save you the trouble.”

She shot him a look—deadpan, unimpressed.

“Bye, Derek.”

He laughed and disappeared into the parking lot with a wave. One by one, the others followed, until it was just her and the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Josie leaned back against the counter, sipping lukewarm water from a dented bottle she hadn’t remembered grabbing. Her eyes drifted to the clock.

4:55.

And there he was.

Pulling in like he meant it, that shiny Escalade glinting like it didn’t belong anywhere near cracked pavement and oil stains. He parked with more confidence than usual this time.

Josie didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

But the corner of her mouth tugged—just slightly.

Early.

She’d be lying if she said that didn’t mean something.