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.