Page 102 of Saddle and Scent
"1970s Vespa," he says with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. "Your aunt had good taste. This thing is practically a classic."
I remember that moped.
Aunt Lil used to ride it to town when I was little, her hair flowing behind her like she was starring in some European film.
I always thought it was the most glamorous thing in the world.
"I haven't seen that thing in years," I say, moving closer to get a better look. "I didn't even know she still had it."
"It was buried under about fifty years worth of stuff," Callum explains, gesturing vaguely at the chaos surrounding us. "Found it this morning when I was looking for tools to fix your truck. The engine's in better shape than I expected."
Of course he's been working on my truck too.
Because that's what Callum does—he fixes things.
Always has.
I watch as he adjusts something with a wrench, his movements precise and confident. There's something hypnotic about watching him work, the way his hands move with such certainty, the quiet intensity of his focus.
"How long have you been out here?" I ask.
"Since about six," he says without looking up. "Couldn't sleep."
Six in the morning.
Which means he's been working for hours while I was unconscious in my perfect new nest.
The guilt hits immediately, followed by something that might be gratitude.
"You didn't have to?—"
"I wanted to," he interrupts, finally looking up to meet my eyes. "Besides, it's therapeutic. Working with my hands, fixing things that are broken. Reminds me that not everything is permanently fucked."
There's weight in those words.
Layers of meaning that go far beyond moped engines and truck repairs.
"Is it going to run?" I ask, deflecting from the emotional minefield we're both dancing around.
His lips curve into something that might be a smile.
"Only one way to find out."
He makes a few more adjustments, then walks over to what I assume is a gas can. The garage smells like motor oil and old leather, with an undertone of something floral that probably comes from the wild honeysuckle growing up the sides of the building.
It's not an unpleasant combination.
Actually, it's kind of perfect—mechanical competence mixed with natural beauty.
Kind of like Callum himself.
He primes the engine with practiced movements, then grabs the kickstart. The first attempt produces nothing but a wheeze. The second gets a reluctant cough. On the third try, the engine catches with a satisfying purr.
"Holy shit," I breathe, clapping my hands together. "You actually got it running."
"Told you," he says, but there's genuine pride in his voice. "Your aunt took good care of it. Just needed some attention."
Like a lot of things around here.
