"Are you going to fire him?" Ember asks, falling into step beside me as we head out to the garage.
"Of course I am." I say, opening the door and motioning her ahead. I wanted to handle it, but knowing Ember's gone-to-war style, I'm relieved she's here. "He put my head on a porn star's body and left it in the office—'Suck me tonight, boss?' That's straight-up sexual harassment."
Hell yes. That idiot should have been gone months ago.
In the garage, I spot the team working on the Corvette. I scan until I find Chris—leaning over the fender, bumping his hips. A few guys chuckle; most don't. The air hums with tension. I stride toward them.
When I approach, everyone stops talking and waves. They trust me. Good.
"Boss, you okay?" Simon asks, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Fine, Simon." I look over at Chris, smirking in his spotless white tank-top and overpriced trainers—some 'playboy meets grease monkey' act that damages the team's respect in about two seconds.
"Chris," I say, checking my watch, "you're fired."
His smirk flips to shock. Then anger. "Don't bother—maybe someone at the bar will pucker up for you tonight. You've got thirty minutes to grab your stuff."
He stands—his face darkening, nostrils flaring. "Has anyone ever told you you're a fucking bitch?"
I step back. Hard. "Thirty minutes."
And that's when he spins me, slapping me across the face. My cheek burns. Time freezes—until Simon pins Chris down, along with Johnson.
"Let me go!" Chris snarls. "She deserved it."
"Krav it up!" Johnson snaps. "One more word, I'll beat you into tomorrow."
I should step in—but I'm still reeling. I clear my throat.
"Get him out." I tell them. "And make it painful. Raise after this." Johnson cracks a grin as he hauls Chris outside.
Ember's at my side, red with rage. She touches my cheek—pain flares. "That limp-dick asshole?"
I smirk against the fire in my chest. "Tony? He's outside with the boys. Let them do their thing."
She tosses her crowbar, charging after Chris. I can't help laughing—her loyalty is legendary.
Inside, I collapse on the couch and check my cheek in my phone camera: swollen, purple. Ouch. My phone buzzes—unknown number.
Unknown: "Hey kid, I heard about the bike for sale. Interested."
Crazy.
I text: "Your friend saw the ad—shop number popped online."
They respond before I blink.
This whole "kid" thing still stings.
So much like that night—deep breath. Don't overthink. I close the phone. It's been that kind of week already
The knock on the back door comes just after eight. My heart thumps louder than it should. I glance at the clock. Right on time.
Wiping my hands on my overalls, I call out, "It's open! Come around!"
I tuck a loose piece of hair behind my ear and rub a grease smudge off my cheek with the back of my arm. My reflection in the metal panel isn't exactly intimidating—messy curls, oil-stained tank, one bruised cheek that still hasn't healed from Chris's tantrum. Real classy, Adria.
Still, something in me jolts as the door creaks open. I don't know why—but I freeze.
Footsteps echo across the concrete. Slow. Measured. Heavy boots, not rushed like a customer.
I straighten up and turn, trying to look confident. "Hey—sorry for the mess, we're working late. Are you here to see the bike?"
Silence.
He just… stands there. Shadows hug the lines of his coat. The air shifts.
"Do you want to come take a look or should I grab one of the guys?" I say evenly, though my hand twitches at my side. Lie. There's no one here but me.
He steps closer. A sliver of light cuts across his face.
And then he says it. The voice I haven't heard in six years.
"You're good at a lot of things, kid," he says, low and familiar, "but lying was never one of them."
My entire body seizes.
No. No way. That voice is impossible. That nickname.
My heart stumbles in my chest as the shadows fall away and his face—his face—emerges.
"Jensen?" I whisper, breath catching like a blade in my lungs.
He smiles. That same crooked grin I saw the night we met, only older now. Rougher. Sharper around the edges.
"Hey, kid."
And just like that—I run.
I don't think. I don't care that I'm covered in grease or shaking. I slam into him, arms flinging around his middle like some part of me still belongs there.
He wraps around me instantly. His coat is cold from the night air, but his arms are warm and solid and real. He's here. After all this time. He's really here.
"I—God—I can't believe it's you," I choke out. "I thought—fuck, I thought you were gone forever."
He holds me tighter. "I should've found you sooner," he murmurs into my hair. "I wanted to. I swear I did. But I didn't know where to start."
I squeeze my eyes shut. A tear slips out. "I'm so sorry. For everything. For leaving. For—"
"Stop." His voice is firm but soft. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Adria."
"I thought you hated me."
He pulls back just enough to look down at me. His blue eyes are intense—warmer than I remember, but still laced with that quiet sadness he never let anyone see. "I never hated you. I hated losing you. And I hated your friend." His lip curls just slightly. "Still do."
I laugh. It comes out wet and awkward. "You and the rest of the world."
He lifts a hand and brushes a tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. "You've changed," he says. "Not in a bad way. Just… different. Stronger."
"You haven't changed at all," I say, searching his face. "Except now you look like you own a damn bank."
He chuckles. "Corporate gig. Long story. I clean up nice."
He doesn't say what I really want to know. And I don't ask. Yet.
I take a deep breath, step back, wiping at my eyes. "Okay. Are you actually here for the bike, or did you just show up to make me cry in my garage?"
"I mean…" he tilts his head, smirking, "…maybe a little of both. But mostly the bike."
I gesture for him to follow me. "Come on. I'll show you."
We walk over to the covered section of the shop. I feel his gaze on my back the whole way, and my stomach won't stop flipping.
"She's a 1987 Suzuki GSX1100F," I explain, trying to focus. "Banged up to hell when I found her. I rebuilt everything myself."
He watches as I yank off the cover, revealing the polished blue-and-white body gleaming under the lights.
He exhales softly. "Holy shit."
"I figured you'd like her." I risk a glance at him. His face is unreadable. Awed. Maybe something deeper.
"You remembered."
"Of course I remembered. You were obsessed with these bikes. I didn't get it then." I run a hand over the gas tank. "Now I do."
He steps forward, slowly walking around it, hand brushing the seat with reverence. "She's beautiful. You did all this?"
"Every bolt."
A long silence passes. Then, his voice drops again. "I don't ride anymore."
I nod. "Sam said that."
He glances at me sharply. "So you've seen him?"
"He came by the shop last week. Told me you weren't doing so well."
He shrugs. "Depends who you ask."
And then his eyes flick to my face. His expression shifts.
"What the hell happened to your eye?"
I tense. My fingers twitch.
"It's nothing," I lie. "Just an ex-employee who didn't like being fired."
He steps closer. "Did he hit you?"
I look down. "Yeah."
He doesn't say anything for a beat.
"You should've called me," he says quietly.
"You didn't even have my number."
"I'd have found you."
My chest tightens. God, why does he say stuff like that?
"I'm fine, Jensen."
"You're not. But okay."
I fidget, suddenly nervous. "Do you… want to sit down?"
He pulls out the stool and sinks into it, watching me the whole time like he's trying to memorize every inch of me.
"Do you want to see me again?" he asks.
I blink. "What?"
His grin flickers back. "Dinner. You. Me. No bikes. Just… us."
I hesitate. My heart's hammering. "I—I guess."
He stands, towering over me. "I'll pick you up tomorrow."
"I don't even have your number—"
"You will." He winks and starts toward the door.
He opens it. Pauses. "By the way—love the name of the shop. 'Kid Auto.' Nice touch."
My mouth drops. No. No way. "It was you? You were texting me?"
He just smiles and walks out, door swinging closed behind him.
And I just stand there, stunned. Speechless.
Shaking.
He's back. Jensen's back. And somehow, my heart never got the memo to stop loving him.