Page 28 of That Moment
“Kill it.”
He reaches past me through the open window for the throttle arm, his fingers grazing my waist as he steadies himself. It’s the lightest touch, deliberate and brief, and my breath forgets how to behave.
“Sorry,” he says. Not sorry at all.
“It’s fine,” I manage.
He straightens, mouth tipped like he heard the tremor. “Vacuum hiss is back. It might be the base gasket. Hand me the quarter-inch?”
I reach, bump the tray, and the nut driver clatters to the floor, skittering under the car. “Dammit. Sorry.”
He’s already crouching, palm braced on the concrete. “You’re jumpy.”
“I’m not.” I am.
He finds the tool, rises in one smooth line, and sets it in my open hand, slow enough that his fingers close over mine for a beat. “You sure?”
“Caffeine,” I say quickly. “I might be over-caffeinated.”
“Try decaf,” he murmurs, amused.
He turns back to the engine while I exhale and try not to melt into a puddle on the shop floor.
We fall into a rhythm. He loosens clamps; I hold the line steady. He says, “Again,” and our shoulders brush when we both lean in the same direction. Once, when I have to reach across him for the spray bottle, my chest skims his back. He goes verystill, just for a breath, then keeps moving like he didn’t feel all the air leave my lungs.
“Start it again.”
The idle evens, then wobbles. He frowns, adjusts the distributor a hair.
“Better,” I say.
He nods, eyes on the belts. “We’ll get it.”
I shift to grab a screwdriver: the back of my hand grazing his forearm. I flinch and he notices.
“You sure you’re not nervous?”
I keep my focus on the screw I absolutely don’t need to tighten yet. “Why would I be nervous?”
He bends to my level, that half-smile making my lower belly drop. “No reason.” He plucks the screwdriver from my fingers in a slow, teasing manner. “You just dropped a tool, forgot how to breathe when I reached past you, and you’re standing a foot farther away from me than you were five minutes ago.”
“I am not,” I say, immediately taking a big step closer out of spite.
His eyes flick down to the new distance, then up. “There she is.”
The radio hums. Outside, a truck rumbles past the garage. He sets the screwdriver down, wipes his hands on a rag, and studies me with that fucking smirk on his face. I have the urge to kiss off.
“Mixture screws next,” he says, “quarter turn out on each.”
I lean in to the carb, careful, aware of him at my shoulder, of the way his presence fills up all the space that isn’t air. We listen together as the idle deepens, one beat, two, almost right.
I glance at the tray. “We should…maybe take five? Before I drop a wrench on your toes.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Take five.”
He reaches past me one more time for the rag, palm skimming my waist like he knows I’ll feel it for the next hour.Then he nods toward the cart: the coffee, the pink box, and steps back just enough to let me breathe.
We take our break on opposite sides of the tool cart like it’s a neutral zone. The coffee and donuts are between us. The shop fan hums lazily. Outside, a church bell rings once and then quits.
