Evergreen Auto & Repair
 

The air smelled like rain that hadn’t landed yet—thick with spring dust and heat off the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a mower hummed lazily through a patch of grass too green to be real, and a cluster of dandelions clung stubbornly to the sidewalk cracks outside Evergreen Auto & Repair.

Josie wiped her hands on a red rag, not because they needed it, but because it gave her something to do. The Escalade had already been pulled around—sleek, spotless, obnoxious. It looked like it belonged to someone who had their name embroidered on a country club towel.

She leaned against the edge of the garage bay, dark coveralls rolled at the sleeves and cinched just right at the waist. A small wrench dangled from her side keyring like an accessory. Her boots were worn but clean. Everything about her looked deliberate without trying.

Then came the sound of tires crunching gravel, followed by the low thump of bass and the too-loud laugh of some boy who thought the world was a locker room.

Two of them climbed out—one she didn’t recognize, the other she did.

Asher Cole. The pretty boy who’d dropped off the Escalade last week with an easy grin and too-white teeth, talking to the manager like he wasn’t used to waiting for things. She remembered thinking he was the kind of guy who’d never changed his own oil in his life.

The friend—too tan, too smug, already scanning the place like it owed him something—spoke first.

“Damn,” he said, eyeing Josie with a smirk. “Didn’t know this place came with scenery. You do tire rotations and break hearts, sweetheart?”

Josie didn’t blink.

She looked at him like he was a speed bump she hadn’t decided whether to hit or not.

“No,” she said coolly. “But I do realign things that are out of place. Want me to start with your mouth?”

Silence.

The guy’s smirk faltered, and Asher—still a few paces behind—let out a low, surprised laugh. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just... amused.

He didn’t look at her the way the other one had. He didn’t look away, either.

“Yeah,” he said, still half-laughing as he clapped his friend on the back. “You can go. I've got it from here.”

The friend grumbled something and stalked off toward the car, peeling out a little too fast.

Josie tilted her head, eyes still on Asher. Cool, unreadable.

“So,” she said, casually tossing the rag over her shoulder. “You always bring backup when picking up your overpriced toy? Or just the ones with loud mouths and no filter?”

Asher didn’t flinch when she threw the rag over her shoulder. Didn’t bristle at the bite in her voice or the way she looked at him like she was deciding whether to key his car or ignore him entirely.

He just smiled.

Not the charming one—the one everyone in school knew like a signature. No, this one was quieter. Realer. Like he didn’t mind being dragged a little if it meant figuring her out.

“Yeah, well,” he said, glancing back at the Escalade like it was suddenly too clean for this place. Too loud. Too not-him. “Some toys are harder to replace.”

Josie didn’t reply, just tilted her head slightly like she was already bored. Or testing him.

He stepped closer, careful not to crowd her—just enough to catch the smell of oil and citrus shampoo in the air between them.

“Didn’t realize sarcasm was part of the service package.”

Nothing. No grin, no smirk, not even a twitch.

“Most people pretend to like me, you know,” he added, arms folding loosely across his chest. “You’re kind of refreshing.”

That earned him a glance—brief, sharp, disinterested.

“You’re not gonna smile, are you?”

Still nothing.

He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. “That’s fine. I like puzzles.”

Josie crouched down beside the car, grabbing a wrench like it was an extension of her body. Her movements were quick, confident. She didn’t waste time. Or words.

So he kept talking. Not because he thought he could charm her—but because he didn’t want to leave just yet.

“So…” he said, watching her work, “you always this charming, or am I just lucky today?”

She didn’t look up.

“Let me guess,” he continued, voice softer now, “you’ve got me pegged already. Rich kid, no depth, probably calls his dad sir.”

His fingers tightened slightly where they rested on his biceps. He didn’t know why he said it—maybe to beat her to the punch. Or maybe to see if she’d tell him he was wrong.

“I don’t blame you,” he murmured. “I’d hate me too if I met me like this.”

Josie didn’t offer comfort. She didn’t even blink. But she didn’t tell him to leave, either. And somehow, that felt like something.

“You know,” he said, nodding toward the hood, “I could watch you do this all day.”

He paused.

“Not in a creepy way—just… there’s something about someone who actually gives a shit about what they’re doing.”

She didn’t answer. Just kept working, steady and efficient, like his words couldn’t touch her.

He winced. “Okay. That did sound creepy. I’ll work on that.”

The silence stretched between them again, long and full of things neither of them was saying. He studied her face—drawn in the overhead light, a smear of grease near her jaw, a shadow tucked behind her eyes like she never quite rested.

And then, quieter than before, almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to hear it—

“You ever let anyone in, Josie Rhodes?” he asked.

His voice was raw now. Honest.

“Or are you all sharp corners and emergency exits?”

She heard all of it.

Every word.

Even though she didn’t look up. Even though her hands kept moving—loosening a bolt, tightening a cap, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a grease-streaked wrist. She heard him.

And if he thought that counted for something, he was already in trouble.

Josie didn’t do golden boys. She’d met them in gas stations in Georgia, in motels off I-10, in towns where the sun bleached everything down to bone and boys with big smiles thought she was just another pretty set of boots. They flirted like they were owed something. They joked like they were being brave. And they all, eventually, backed off when they realized she wasn’t the girl who giggled at their one-liners or waited to be impressed.

So no, she wasn’t buying it.

Not the smile. Not the self-deprecation. Not the “I could watch you do this all day” with that half-embarrassed wince like maybe he wasn’t one of those guys.

Because they all thought they weren’t one of those guys.

She scowled at that part—the watching her thing. Let him see it, too. A flash of annoyance, eyes narrowing just enough to make her point.

But then he corrected himself. Admitted it sounded creepy. Didn’t double down.

Her scowl softened. Not by much. But just enough to notice if you were looking closely. Not forgiveness—just… acknowledgment. She respected people who knew when they were full of shit.

Josie stood, dusting her palms on the thighs of her coveralls. He was closer now—still shorter than her. Five-five, maybe. She didn’t tower over him, but she didn’t have to. Her height had never been about inches. It was in the way she held herself. In how unshaken she stood while the rest of the world bent to match.

“You talk too much,” she said, voice calm, unimpressed. Like she was diagnosing a noise under the hood.

She finally met his eyes—dark and unreadable.

“But I’ll give you points for self-awareness.”

A beat passed. Her expression didn’t change, but her voice dipped a little lower—less guarded, more honest.

“And no,” she added. “I don’t let people in.”

Then came the smallest flicker of something that might’ve been a smirk—crooked, blink-and-you-miss-it.

“Not without gloves on.”

She turned back to the car, crouched again, and reached for her wrench.

The conversation, as far as she was concerned, was over.

But she hadn’t told him to leave.

And that, for her, said plenty.

His throat was dry.

Not the kind of dry that came from nerves—not exactly. More like that moment after a hit to the gut, where all the air leaves your body and doesn’t come back right away. Where everything feels a little quieter. A little more real.

He watched her crouch again, all calm purpose and grease-streaked defiance, and didn’t miss a single beat of what had just happened.

She’d heard him.

All of it.

And she hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t rolled her eyes or shoved him out the door like most people would’ve when the charm wore off and the fumbling started. No, she’d stared him down, said her piece, and gone right back to work like that was the real power move.

And maybe it was.

“You talk too much.”

Yeah. He’d heard that before. But never like this. Never from someone who looked him dead in the eye like she’d already figured out every layer he didn’t know how to name.

“But I’ll give you points for self-awareness.”

That part stuck. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

And then came the real one. The one that lodged somewhere deep in his chest and made everything go still for a second.

“I don’t let people in.”
“Not without gloves on.”

Asher didn’t smile.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t push.

He just stood there, letting the moment settle into his bones, wondering what the hell it said about him that he didn’t feel like leaving.

Most people made him feel like he had to be something. Loud. Cool. Collected.

Josie didn’t want any of that.

She didn’t want anything from him.

And somehow, that made him want to give her more.

“I talk too much,” he finally said, voice low, quieter now. “You’re not wrong.”

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing down, then back at her crouched figure.

“But you listened.”

A pause.

“That’s more than most people do.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he moved to the other side of the car and leaned against the edge, careful not to crowd her space.

He didn’t say anything else.

He just stayed.

Because she hadn’t told him to leave.

And maybe—for now—that was enough.

Josie didn’t look up right away. She tightened the oil cap with one hand and reached for the rag with the other, her movements clean, practiced. But she’d heard him. Again.

“That’s more than most people do.”

There was something about the way he said it—like it wasn’t meant for her, not really. Like it slipped out because it had nowhere else to go. And she hated how that tugged at something in her. Hated how familiar it felt, hearing someone talk like they didn’t expect to be heard in the first place.

That voice—low and a little raw, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—echoed louder than any of the charm he’d thrown around before.

Most people don’t listen.

She knew what that felt like. Growing up with motel walls and missed birthdays, with a dad who loved her but never really asked what she wanted. With a mom who had listened too much to herself and not enough to Josie. She knew what it was to talk into silence. To stop talking at all because of it.

She didn’t sigh. Didn’t soften. But her hands slowed, just slightly.

When she cast a glance over her shoulder, he was still there—really there. Not leaning in with another quip or smirking like he’d won something. Just quiet. Watching. Waiting.

Josie turned back to the car, tossing the rag onto the workbench behind her with a casual flick.

“Well,” she muttered, grabbing a fresh pair of gloves, “if you’re gonna stand there looking like a lost Golden Retriever, you might as well earn your keep.”

She tossed a second pair of gloves his way—black nitrile, already dusted with grit.

“Catch.”

No warning. No explanation. Just that one word and a look that dared him to step up or shut up.

She popped the hood, wiped her hands on her thighs, and nodded toward the tools.

“You afraid of getting your hands dirty, pretty boy?”

Her tone was light, but her eyes weren’t. They held him in place—sharp, searching, waiting.

Whatever this was, whatever he thought it might be, he’d have to meet her on her turf.

No charm. No show.

Just grit.

And she’d see what he was made of.

He caught the gloves. Barely.

Fumbled them for a second, more startled than anything, and then held them in his hands like they might tell him what to do next. Black nitrile. Dusty. One already torn at the cuff. They smelled like metal and heat and something else—something he couldn’t name.

Josie didn’t wait for him to figure it out.

She was already elbow-deep under the hood, sleeves shoved to her forearms, jaw set like she didn’t have time for hesitation.

Asher slipped the gloves on without saying a word.

They were tight. A little too tight. But he didn’t complain.

Instead, he stepped forward—slow, unsure, but steady. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but he wasn’t about to back down now. Not after that look. Not after “You afraid of getting your hands dirty, pretty boy?” Like it was a challenge and a litmus test and a map all in one.

“I’ve had worse things on my hands,” he said under his breath, voice low.

Then, a little louder—enough for her to hear without thinking he was trying too hard—

“What do you need?”

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t clever.

But it was honest.

He stood beside her, close enough to see the smudge of grease on her cheekbone, the tiny freckle just below her jaw, the threadbare patch on the knee of her coveralls.

She didn’t look at him, not fully. But she shifted just slightly to make space.

And that was all the invitation he needed.

He stayed quiet. Watched. Followed her lead. When she passed him a tool, he didn’t question it. When she told him to hold something steady, he did.

It wasn’t graceful. Wasn’t effortless. But it was real.

And somewhere between the silence and the socket wrench, Asher realized—

She wasn’t trying to fix the car anymore.

She was seeing if he could keep up.

Josie could feel him beside her—awkward, out of rhythm, but trying like hell to keep up. Most guys would’ve tried to flirt by now. Brushed up against her on purpose. Tried to make a joke out of something she took seriously. Most guys thought getting under the hood with her was some kind of shortcut. Like proximity was a ticket to something deeper.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t ask dumb questions. Didn’t try to correct her. Didn’t act like he knew more than he did.

He just… helped.

It threw her off more than she'd admit.

She glanced at him once—quick, sideways—expecting to find that familiar gleam in his eye. The one that said I’m just playing along until I get what I want.

But it wasn’t there.

Instead, he looked like someone who had something to prove—but not to her. To himself, maybe. Like he was trying to figure out who he was when no one was watching. When he wasn’t being Asher Cole, golden boy of Evergreen. Just a guy in gloves trying not to screw up.

That? That was different.

It didn’t mean she trusted him. Not yet.

But it meant he wasn’t gone yet, either. And that said something.

She leaned back from the engine, stretching her arms for a second before wiping the edge of her wrist against her brow. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was intentional. A test, just like everything else.

Josie didn’t believe in giving people easy outs. If they wanted to stick around, they’d have to earn it. Quietly. Consistently. Without asking for credit.

She reached for the old serpentine belt from the side tray and held it out to him—still not looking, still not explaining.

“Test two,” she said, flat but firm.

When he hesitated, she turned her head just enough to catch his eyes.

“Find the right match for this. Parts cabinet’s in the back.”

She let the belt drop into his palm like it was nothing. Like it didn’t weigh more than her trust.

“No labels,” she added. “No cheat sheet.”

A beat.

Then, casually, like it didn’t matter—but it did:

“And if you come back with anything off a Dodge, I’m locking the bay doors and telling everyone you cried.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Good luck, pretty boy.”

Asher held the belt in his hand like it might bite him.

It was worn, frayed at one edge, and heavier than he expected—flexible, sure, but thick, dense with use. He turned it over once, twice, then glanced toward the back of the garage where the parts cabinet sat like a final boss in a video game he’d never learned how to play.

She hadn’t looked at him when she gave the order. Hadn’t explained what to do, or how, or even why—just handed him something that mattered and watched to see if he’d break it.

Test two.

He swallowed hard, once. Not fear—pride. The kind that whispered don’t screw this up.

“Right,” he said under his breath, already stepping away. “No Dodges. Got it.”

He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of a joke. Not yet. Not until he passed whatever the hell this was. Because it wasn’t about the belt. Not really. It was about whether he’d cut corners. Whether he’d come back empty-handed. Whether he’d prove her right—that he was like all the rest.

The back of the garage was dim, cluttered with old boxes and labeled drawers that were only helpful if you knew what you were doing. He didn’t. But he didn’t panic, either.

Instead, he did something no one would’ve expected from a golden boy.

He slowed down.

He traced the belt’s teeth with his gloved fingers, matched its length against a dozen others. Took his time. Didn’t guess. Didn’t rush. When he finally found a match—buried near the bottom of a tray that looked untouched in years—he double-checked the tension, the width, the wear.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t cheer. Just nodded to himself.

Then he turned back.

Josie was still by the engine, sleeves rolled, ponytail slipping loose like it always did, and a look on her face that could’ve cut steel. She didn’t turn when she heard him approach.

So he didn’t speak.

He just held the belt out in front of her. Quiet. Steady. Hands a little greased now, and something else—earned.

No labels. No cheat sheet. No Dodge.

Just the right part.

And when her fingers brushed his to take it, he didn’t flinch.

He met her eyes.

Didn’t grin.

Didn’t wink.

Just looked at her like he meant it.

“Test two,” he said, voice low.

“Passed.”

Josie didn’t answer right away.

She took the belt from his hand like she didn’t trust it—or him. Held it up to the light, turning it over, stretching it just slightly between her fingers like she expected it to fall apart. She checked the grooves. The wear. The size.

Like she’d done this before. Like someone had once handed her the wrong thing and made her pay for it.

It was the right belt.

Damn it.

Her jaw flexed. She gave him nothing for a second longer than necessary—just kept that hard, gritty stillness about her, the kind that made most people backpedal. But then, with a quiet breath and the faintest edge of surprise tucked behind her eyes, she gave a small nod.

“Nicely done.”

The words came out gruff, almost reluctant, like they’d cost her something. But they were honest.

And maybe—maybe—there was the faintest trace of something else in her voice, too. That same softness her dad used to have when she’d get a repair right on the first try. No high-fives, no clapping. Just a simple look, a tool passed a little more gently, maybe a soda cracked open and left near her elbow.

Respect.

She didn’t let herself look at him too long, but she did glance once—sideways, beneath her lashes—as he stepped back into the sunlight streaming through the bay doors. His face was flushed, forearms streaked with sweat and grit. He looked like he didn’t belong there—and yet, for the first time, like he wasn’t pretending to.

She didn’t say thanks.

Didn’t ask if he wanted to keep helping.

She just turned back to the engine, belt still in hand, and murmured without looking:

“Don’t get cocky, pretty boy.”

But there was a flicker of something in her voice—teasing, almost warm. Like maybe, just maybe, she was starting to believe he wasn’t full of shit.

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.

[Days after the kiss. After the clearing. After the car.]

The shop radio was stuck on some godawful country station again.

Josie didn’t bother changing it. Rick always found a way to set it back anyway, like the damn dial was cursed to default to men crying about trucks and tequila.

She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her glove, grease smudged across her cheekbone, and leaned back under the hood of a Ford that should’ve been scrapped ten years ago. Spring sun filtered through the open garage bay, warm and sharp, and the scent of motor oil clung to her like armor.

She hadn’t answered his texts.

Not one.

Not the one that said last night was… something, or the one after that with I can’t stop thinking about you, or the one with you okay? like she wasn’t the one who’d pulled away first.

She wasn’t ignoring him because she was mad.

She was ignoring him because if she didn’t, she’d want more.

And wanting more?

That was where people got caged.

Trapped.

Left.

Josie didn’t do “left.” Not anymore.

“Romeo’s here,” Rick called, his voice a gravelly drawl from across the bay. “Try not to break his heart in front of the oil filter display. I need at least one of you emotionally stable enough to work a lift.”

Josie’s stomach twisted—and not in the flirty, fluttery kind of way she hated.

She didn’t look up right away. Just set the wrench down with a little more force than necessary, tugged her gloves off, and swiped her cheek with her sleeve.

Sure enough, there he was.

Asher Cole, standing in the middle of Evergreen Auto like he had every right to look that good under fluorescent lights and dust-streaked windows. Like he didn’t know exactly how unwelcome he was here.

She scowled, more annoyed at herself than him.

“You seriously come to a place full of mechanics in the middle of a shift like it’s a rom-com meet cute?”

Her voice carried just enough bite to make the guys in the back snicker. One of them muttered something under his breath—probably “he’s braver than I thought.”

Josie crossed the floor toward him, expression flat, lips pressed into a line sharp enough to cut steel.

When she reached him, she didn’t stop.

Just grabbed his elbow and muttered low:

“Outside. Now. Before Rick starts betting on whether or not I hit you.”

She pushed the door open with one shoulder, tugged him out into the sunlight, and let it slam shut behind them.

The second they were alone, she exhaled hard and yanked a half-empty pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. Lit one with a flick of her wrist, inhaled deep, and leaned against the brick wall like the smoke might burn away the part of her chest that still remembered how his breath felt against her skin.

“Didn’t answer your texts,” she said coolly, staring out across the parking lot like the oil stains and cracked asphalt were more interesting than him.

“Didn’t mean I wanted a house call.”

She didn’t look at him yet.

Because if she did?

She might let herself remember too much.

The clearing.
The kiss.
The backseat.
The way he looked at her afterward like she was something worth holding onto.

And she wasn’t.

Not for long.

Asher didn’t flinch.

Didn’t shove his hands in his pockets or crack a joke to fill the air. He just stood there, sunlight on his shoulders, engine grease scent in his lungs, and Josie Rhodes in front of him looking like she might bolt or bite—he couldn’t tell which.

But she was talking.

And she’d dragged him outside instead of walking away.

That had to count for something.

He watched her drag on the cigarette, jaw tight, eyes somewhere far away, like she was trying to remember who the hell she was before he ever touched her.

God, she was beautiful like this.

Wrecked around the edges.
Trying so hard not to care she’d practically written it across her skin.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured that part out.”

No venom. No pushback.

Just… real.

“I texted anyway.”

He stepped closer—careful not to crowd her, careful not to make her retreat again.

“You didn’t owe me an answer. I just needed to say it.”

His voice dropped, steady, low, the way it always got when he meant something too much.

“Because it wasn’t just the clearing. Or the car. Or the fact that I still haven’t stopped thinking about what you looked like under those stars.”

He met her eyes then.

Didn’t let her look away.

“It’s the way you talk when no one else is listening. The way you call bullshit on things that scare most people into silence. The way you kiss like you’re trying to win, but hold on like you’re afraid you already lost.”

He swallowed hard.

“I’m not here for a rom-com moment, Josie. I’m not trying to be the guy who shows up with a mixtape and a dumb speech and thinks that fixes everything.”

A beat.

Then softer:

“I’m here because you matter.”

He let that sit.

Let her smoke and scowl and breathe and run the math however she needed to.

Then, quietly:

“If you tell me to walk, I’ll walk.”

Another beat. One he hated.

“But if there’s even a part of you that wants me to stay… I will. No questions. No games.”

His voice cracked just a little when he said it, but he didn’t back off.

“I’ll stay.”

He wasn’t asking her to believe in forever.

He was just asking for right now.

And maybe—for someone like her—that was the biggest dare of all.

The cigarette burned between her fingers like it had something to say.

Josie didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t look at him.

Because if she did—if she gave him so much as a glance—he’d know.

He’d see everything written plain across her face:
That she’d replayed that night in her head more times than she could count.
That she still woke up with the ghost of his hands on her hips.
That she kept rereading the texts she never answered.
That she wanted to scream don’t go and please stay and I don’t do this but I want to do it with you.

But her eyes would give her away.

So she kept them forward. Fixed on the horizon like she had somewhere better to be than tangled up in the wreckage of her own fear.

She took another slow drag. Let the smoke curl out through her nose. Let silence stretch between them like wire—tense and thin and one wrong step from slicing open the truth.

And then—because she had to say it before she broke—

“That was a one night thing, Asher.”

Her voice was cool. Measured. Brutal in the way only girls who’ve learned how to self-destruct gracefully can be.

“I needed a release. A distraction. Something to shut my brain up.”

She flicked ash toward the curb like it didn’t weigh as much as it did.

“That’s all it was.”

Still, she didn’t look.

Because if she did, she might crack.

“It wouldn’t work between us. We both know it. You’ve got your polished future waiting, and I’ve got exactly zero interest in sitting around while you figure out how to fit me into it.”

Finally—finally—she turned to face him.

Not slouched.

Not broken.

Standing tall.

All five foot eight of steel spine and practiced detachment, staring him down with the extra three inches she wore like a shield.

Her cigarette hung loose between two fingers. Her other hand curled at her side like it might lash out just to end this faster.

“You had your night, Cole.”

Her voice dropped, just a hair. Enough to sting.

“You can go now.”

And still—she didn’t move.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t walk away.

She stood there in the sun, smoke drifting past her face, heart hammering behind her ribs like it was trying to claw its way out and grab him.

But she waited.

For him to believe the lie.

For him to leave.

Because if he didn’t?

If he stayed?

She didn’t know what the hell she’d do.

Asher didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe, maybe.

He just stood there, like every piece of him had been hit with something he saw coming and still wasn’t ready for.

She delivered it clean—cold and surgical, like she’d rehearsed it in her head a dozen times before letting it bleed into the air between them.

And he felt every word.

One night thing.

Distraction.

That’s all it was.

He wanted to call bullshit. God, he wanted to. Wanted to throw it back in her face, tell her no one kisses like that for a distraction. That people don’t beg someone to kiss them again before they change their mind and then mean it like she did.

But she was already halfway gone.

Not physically—but behind the eyes, behind the smoke, behind the lie she’d sold herself to keep from getting burned.

So he nodded.

One slow, hollow tilt of his chin.

Visible hurt.

No clever lines. No big speech. Just the truth in his silence.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was low—too calm to be angry, too honest to be anything but real.

“Okay.”

He stepped back once.

Then once more.

“I’ll go.”

His throat worked around the next words, but he got them out.

“You change your mind, though…”

He met her eyes now.

Steady. Unflinching. Maybe the bravest thing he’d done all day.

“…you’ve got my number.”

Then he turned.

Didn’t look back.

Because Josie didn’t need someone to chase her.

She needed someone who saw her—all of her—and choose her anyway.

And he had.

He still would.

But only when she was ready to believe it.

Josie didn’t flinch.
Didn’t shift.
Didn’t let a single crack show while he stood there, breaking in real time.

His voice landed quiet. Clean. Too kind for how much damage it did.

Okay.

That’s what he said.

I’ll go.

And God, that was the part that wrecked her.

Because he didn’t fight her.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t try to force open the door she’d just slammed shut.

He gave her the dignity of believing her lie.

And that made it worse.

Her jaw locked tight. She didn’t blink. Not until he turned.

And then—only then—her eyes shimmered.

Just barely. Just enough.

One tear slid loose and she let it fall. Didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t move to chase him or call his name or say the thing she was screaming inside her head.

Stay.

She watched his back retreat like it hadn’t once been pressed against hers in the dark, like his hands hadn’t memorized every inch of her the night the world went quiet.

And then he was gone.

Out of the sun. Out of reach.

She inhaled sharp through her nose, the cigarette in her hand burning low and bitter, and turned—fast, too fast, like motion could erase the ache sitting in her chest.

Then, without thinking, she kicked the nearest object—an empty oil bucket near the shop wall—sent it skidding into the dirt with a violent rattle that made one of the guys inside shout, “What the hell was that?”

Josie didn’t answer.

She wiped the corner of her eye with her sleeve like it hadn’t happened, flicked the last of her cigarette onto the gravel, and stalked back inside.

Head high.

Spine straight.

But her chest?

Her chest felt hollow.

Like she’d just walked away from the only good thing that didn’t ask her to change first.

And worse?

She knew it.

But knowing didn’t make her brave.

Not yet.