Page 22 of Carrick
A few times, she caught me watching. Each time, her smirk deepened, like she knew exactly what she was doing—and didn’t mind one bit. That smirk landed harder than it should’ve. Made me feel nineteen again, flushed and caught staring at a girl who was three steps ahead and not about to slow down for me.
“You always this calm under pressure?” I asked during a lull, voice quieter now—less challenge, more curiosity.
She twisted the cap back on the oil pan and wiped her fingers on a rag. “I’m not calm,” she said. “I’m surviving.”
The way she said it—quiet, certain, like it was a simple fact—hit harder than any outburst. I knew that tone. Had lived in it. It belonged to people who never let their shoulders drop, who slept with one eye open and an escape plan in their back pocket. It said:Don’t ask. Don’t look too close. I’m holding together what I can.
I stood slowly, stretching muscles that still hadn’t forgiven me. My back cracked. My ribs flared. The cold bit at my skin, but I didn’t zip up my hoodie. I needed the sting—needed something real, something sharp, anything but this ache I couldn’t name every time she looked at me like that.
Finished with her work, Bellamy moved to the sink, squirting a gob of orange-scented mechanic’s soap into her hands. The citrus cut through the oil and metal, blooming in the chill of the garage. I watched her scrub—precise, methodical, like she was trying to scrub more than just grease from her skin.
When she shut off the water, she grabbed a clean rag, drying her hands in silence. She didn’t look at me. Not at first. Then she set the towel down, took a breath.
She was about to leap, and wasn’t sure if I’d catch her.
“Look,” she said finally, her tone shifting. “I appreciate the hospitality, or whatever you want to call this, but I’m not here to play house. I didn’t ask to be saved.”
“I’m not saving you,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Just making sure you don’t get dead on my watch.”
She let out a humorless laugh. “Great. So we agree. I stay out of your way, you stay out of mine.”
I gave her a slow once-over—not to be a dick, but because I needed the reminder. That she was real. That she was here, under my roof, in my garage, already lodged beneath my skin.
“You say that like it’s gonna be easy,” I said.
She started past me, but her voice floated over her shoulder like a dare. “You say that like you think you’re irresistible.”
I didn’t answer. Not because I couldn’t—because I wasn’t sure I should.
She was fire. And I was already halfway burned.
The house woke up with the grace of a frat party. Somewhere out in the woods, Maddy and Niko were yelling—something about cheating at pond games and losing a flip-flop to “goddamn nature.” Wet footprints smeared across the patio. Footsteps thudded overhead. A screen door groaned. Then came the sacred sound of someone cursing at the coffeemaker.
Bellamy paused at the door and raised a brow. “Are they always like this?”
“Only when they’re not being shot at.”
She shook her head and vanished inside. I stayed back, letting the silence settle. Letting the scent of oil and coffee ground me. My car looked better already. So did my morning.
And that was the part that scared me.
By the time I made it to the kitchen, it looked like a war zone. Flour dusted the counter. A skillet spat angrily on the stove. Sully stood in the middle of it, wielding a spatula like a weapon. A tray of gluten-free biscuits sat cooling nearby—slightly unevenand vaguely threatening—while a pot of sausage gravy bubbled with suspicious intent. The entire room smelled like hope, butter, and chaos.
“If anyone hands me another gluten-free recipe that starts with ‘just substitute with coconut flour,’ I’m gettin’ violent,” Sully muttered, giving the gravy a stir like it had insulted him.
“That wasone time,” Maddy protested, barefoot and dripping, wrapped in a towel that looked suspiciously like one of mine. “And it was gluten-free!”
“So is disappointment,” Sully shot back.
Bellamy entered behind me, still smelling like motor oil and oranges, and I watched all three of them clock her presence instantly. Maddy arched a brow. Sully blinked. Niko leaned forward with that feral curiosity that always meant trouble.
“Huh,” Niko said, pausing in the doorway with the towel slung around his neck. “It still shocks me that you’re the get-under-the-hood type.”
His eyes flicked to the smudge on her cheek. “That smudge intentional, or did the Charger fight back?” he said with a smirk.
She wiped the smear off and raised a brow. “Didn’t realize grease offended your sensibilities, Commander.”
Sully entered with a bark of laughter, wiping his hand on his apron as he offered her a steaming plate. “Commander,” he snorted. “God, please salute him.”
