Page 5 of Stitch & Steel
My stomach dipped.
That dent had been there for two years. City parking, tight turns, one unlucky light post. It had become part of the car's charm, like the stubborn air freshener that never smelled like “ocean breeze” but refused to fall off the rearview.
I never asked him to fix it.
And yet there he was, shirt clinging to his back in the heat, forearms flexing like corded rope with every motion. Focused. Silent. Relentless.
And absolutely not invited.
I crossed my arms and called out, “You planning to bill me for that?”
He didn’t look up. “Nah. Just couldn’t look at it any longer.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Excuse me?”
Now he looked up. His expression unreadable as ever, eyes shaded by thick lashes and a furrowed brow. “Your car. It’s been bugging me since the day you rolled in.”
“I didn’t ask you to fix it.”
“Nope.”
The word hung between us, dry and unapologetic.
I swallowed hard, suddenly unsure if I was annoyed or… something else entirely. Gratitude? Guilt? Heat? Some strange cocktail of all three?
“Well, thanks,” I muttered. “I guess.”
He stood, wiped his hands on a rag, and said nothing. No smile. No smug comment. Just that same heavy presence, like he took up more air than physics allowed.
“I—uh—” I gestured behind me toward the kitchen. “Would you like some iced tea? As a thank you. For the unrequested bodywork.”
He cocked his head slightly. “You offering because you want me to come in, or because you feel bad for snapping?”
I blinked. “Both?”
Something in his gaze softened. Barely. Like the edge of a blade cooling after fire.
“Alright.”
Inside, the silence stretched like a bad second date. Logan leaned against the counter while I fumbled with the glasses, pouring sweet tea like I hadn’t made it a thousand times before.
He didn’t touch his.
I took a long sip of mine, too fast, and instantly regretted it. My teeth ached.
“So,” I said, voice an octave too high, “do you always sneak around fixing women’s cars in broad daylight?”
He lifted a brow. “Only the ones I usually get naked with.”
That shut me up.
I stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, tea in hand, staring at a man who looked like he belonged in a biker bar, not my grandma’s linoleum-floored kitchen. The air felt thick. Like neither of us quite knew what to do with each other.
He took a sip of the tea, slow and deliberate. I watched the way his throat moved, the way his fingers curled around the glass—strong, steady, calloused. A man who knew how to fix things with those hands. Break things too.
He set the glass down on the counter, eyes never leaving mine. “You always this jumpy around me?”
I gave a breathy laugh. “Only when you sneak up on my car with a socket wrench and a savior complex.”
