CHAPTER 1 — YOUR CAR'S FUCKED ⛐
summary: hungover and post-hookup, you're more than eager to get home. one problem — your car's broken down in a town you've never heard of. lucky for you, there's a mechanic there to help. unlucky for you, he's an asshole.
author's notes: oh my god finally! my first proper long work. i hope you enjoy!! sorry if you dont see much of me after this cuz its exam season. babys first arthur fic xx
Your vision blurs at the edges, little black spots dancing like they’re mocking you. Your head is pounding so hard it feels detached from your body. Your mouth tastes like regret and cheap alcohol, and your stomach flips every time you move too fast, and worst of all, your poor Mini Cooper — newly bought, secondhand — now sputtering on the side of the road at the asscrack of dawn. You’re in the middle of nowhere; just trees and greenery, with maybe a cafe and some smaller shops dotted around. You laugh (and regret it, because your head spikes with pain) when you see horses and cows and sheep. Jesus, you really are nowhere.
You had been at a birthday party the night before, and all you could remember after doing shots was waking up with a man you didn't know. The shame crawls back up your spine just thinking about it. The hurried, half-dressed escape. The way you didn’t even look back, just grabbed your things and left. When your car started faltering through a town you’d never been through on your way to a long journey back home, you were almost in tears. You rifled through the glovebox to find anything — this was a second-hand car, and you hadn’t put anything in the glove yet. You haven’t even had the car long enough to put anything in it. No tissues. No charger. You laugh sadly as you see a pack of cigarettes with no lighter.
“Shit,” you groan, which seems to be the only word you can say before you feel the tears sting your eyes. Your hands drop uselessly into your lap as your chest tightens, that awful, helpless feeling creeping in.
You reach for your phone, in a flash of supposed ingenuity, before realising it's dead.
“Fucking grand,” you spit, angry at yourself, because this was surely some sort of divine karma for not opting to round up to 2 dollars at the counter last week.
Checking the car mirror as you wallow in uncertainty, you ponder how the fuck you even got here. Red-rimmed eyes with your smudgy mascara, chapped lips rubbed raw from biting anxiously, and hair all messed up — worse, because you know it’s not just from sleep. Someone else’s hands were in it, tugging, pulling. Anger hits faster than embarrassment this time—sharp, immediate, cutting through the fog in your head.
Because there they are, impossible to miss. Dark marks scattered along your neck, blooming down into your collarbones, disappearing beneath the neckline of that stupid minidress you didn’t even remember putting on.
Heat floods your face—part humiliation, part frustration, part something uglier you don’t even want to name. You don’t remember asking for that. You barely remember anything at all, and somehow that makes it worse.
You slump back in your seat, blinking hard, the pounding in your head syncing up with the irritation buzzing under your skin.
Not by much—but late enough that he skips going back for the coffee he left on the counter and just grabs his keys, dragging a hand through his already messy hair on the way out. He can grab one on the way, even if he actually prefers tea, but the only cafe in this town makes it all wrong. The morning is quiet, slightly unnatural way country roads get at this hour. Trees line the stretch ahead, long shadows still clinging to the edges of the road. No real noise except his truck and the low hum of The Smashing Pumpkins fade into the morning.
The café he usually stops at is just ahead. Its faded sign is wearing, a crumbling illustration of a coffee bean, lights already flicking on inside, someone probably turning the machine on behind the counter. He stops on the opposite side of the cafe, kindly dubbed as “Arthur’s spot” by the teenage employee who always opens.
He’s already parking thinking about nothing more complicated than caffeine, when the sound cuts through — not loud enough to demand attention but an uneven splutter. A car that’s trying very hard to keep going and inevitably failing. Arthur eases off the thought of coffee immediately without really meaning to.
Ahead, right beside the café, a small Mini Cooper jerks forward awkwardly, in all honestly, a little pathetically. It hesitates, coughs, then dies. It rolls a little farther before coming to a complete stop in the roadside parking outside the café. Not tucked away, but right in view of the glass windows and the early morning routine inside. Arthur winces and watches it for a beat longer than necessary. Coffee can wait. He’s more of a tea guy anyway. He signals, pulls over ahead of it, and kills the engine.
The air outside is cool and sharp, the crispness in the air indicating autumn’s arrival. Arthur shuts his door and starts walking back. As he gets closer, the Mini comes into clearer view. It's an older car, tired like it's been pushed a little too far and hasn’t had much help along the way. His eyes dart around methodically to see if there’s anything visibly wrong. But one thing perplexes him. The driver is showing no signs of getting out. Just frantically rummaging in the glovebox, another hand on her head.
He stops at the window, lifts a hand, pauses just long enough to register that something isn’t right. Arthur knocks on the glass, then waits.
Two abrupt knocks on your window make you jolt so hard your spine hits the seat, breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat. For a second, your brain refuses to process it as real, chalking it up to another fragment of the headache, another symptom of the morning trying to split you open.
Your head turns slowly toward the window. There’s someone there, standing just beyond the glass. You blink, trying to focus properly, vision still unstable at the edges, and the world outside starts to sharpen into shape. A man. Leaning slightly toward the car. One hand still raised from the knock, the other resting loosely at his side. Sleeves rolled, hair messy in that way that looks unintentional but still somehow put together. He’s watching you, not in a way that feels invasive, but in a way that says he’s already figured out something is wrong.
It takes you a second too long to fully register that this is real, that you’re not imagining him along with everything else this morning. Then your stomach drops slightly as you realise you’re no longer alone in the middle of nowhere beside a café you don’t recognise. He taps the glass again, softer, like he’s checking you’re actually conscious. You crack the window just enough to breathe.
The man opens his mouth, but you swiftly cut him off.
“Look,” you say, your voice rough, thinner than you mean it to be. You drag a hand over your face like you can wipe the whole morning off with it. “It’s been a hard… whatever this is—morning, night, I don’t even know anymore.”
You let out a small, humourless breath, shaking your head slightly.
“I’m not—” you hesitate, swallowing. “I don’t have the energy for, like, conversation right now. Or… anything, really.”
For a moment, he doesn’t respond. When you glance back up, his expression has shifted. He doesn’t look annoyed or dismissive, just more focused, like he’s adjusting to you rather than pushing against you.
“Alright,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now, steadier. “Fair enough.”
The lack of pushback catches you slightly off guard, and you find yourself looking at him properly for the first time, squinting against the light. There’s no urgency in him. He has a steady sort of presence that feels oddly out of place against everything else about this morning. You actually look at him, and with a sinking heart, you realise he’s hot. Fuck, of course he is. Of course—on top of everything else—this is the moment your life decides to introduce a man who looks like that. You’ve just told him, essentially, to go away, and you’re sitting here looking like a mess.
He doesn’t react to the way you’ve clearly decided to look anywhere but directly at him. If anything, he just shifts his weight slightly, the mystery man giving you space to breathe. God, he probably wants to get away from you as quickly as possible.
“Right,” he says after a moment, glancing briefly toward the front of the car before looking back at you. “Your car’s fucked, or so I think.”
You blink dumbly, taken aback by his words, almost as if he’s commenting on the weather instead of delivering what feels like the final blow to your already disastrous morning. Any lingering chance of being charmed by him slips clean out from under you, gone as quickly as everything else seems to be today.
“Oh,” you say, because what else is there to say to that?
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, a little smile on his face undoubtedly due to your dumbfounded expression.
“Look, it's best if I give it to you straight. Don’t want poor city girl stuck in this place.”
Your grimace deepens, and you’re a bit hurt at his tone.
“Car’s not making it an hour like this,” he says, voice carrying just enough to reach you without him looking back. “You can try, if you want.”
You sigh again. “Do you know where I could go to get it fixed, or even just looked at? I live an hour away, and I’ve never been in this tiny town before.”
He doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, Hot Mean Guy studies the car for a moment, then gestures vaguely over his shoulder with his thumb, the movement casual.
“Yeah,” he says. “There’s a place a few minutes from here.”
Your shoulders drop slightly in relief. “Oh—okay, good. I was worried I’d have to—”
“It’s mine,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.
“Couple minutes down the road,” he adds, tone still even, still carrying that same blunt edge. “Not much else around here unless you feel like waiting a few hours for someone who’ll charge you double and do half the job.”
That shifts something immediately. You look at him properly now, your eyes moving over details you hadn’t fully registered before—the rolled sleeves, the grease on his workshirt under his jacket, the way he carries himself like none of this is unfamiliar.
“I just asked you where to find a mechanic,” you say, dragging a hand over your face again, “while you were standing right there looking exactly like one.”
There’s a flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth, subtle but definitely there. “Yeah,” he says. “You did.”
You let your head fall back again with a quiet groan. “Great. Really making a strong impression here.”
He laughs at you meanly, which only makes you feel something in your stomach.
“I’ve got a truck,” he says, nodding once toward the road. “Could tow it back and save you trying to limp in those shoes of yours.”
He glances at you briefly, then, eyes flicking over your face—not lingering, not soft, but checking. Like he’s gauging whether you’re going to argue, or shut down, or just stand there looking like the day’s already wrung you out.
You nod with a relieved smile, the kind that comes more from exhaustion than genuine ease, but it’s still something—still better than being stuck here alone with a dead phone and a car that clearly isn’t going anywhere on its own. The tension in your shoulders loosens just slightly as you shift in your seat, as if the decision itself has taken some weight off you.
“Yeah,” you say, quieter now, like you’re only just catching up to what’s being offered. “That would be… really helpful. Thank you.”
He gives a small nod in return, like it’s nothing out of the ordinary for him, already half-turning his attention toward the front of the car again. There’s no fuss in the way he moves, no dramatics about it.
“Pop the hood for me?” he asks.
You lean forward, fumbling briefly for the latch near your knee. Your fingers catch it on the second try, and there’s a small click as you pull it.
He smiles, and it catches you off guard more than it probably should. It’s not dramatic or overly familiar, just a small, easy expression that seems to sit naturally on his face as he turns his attention toward the engine. Still, something about it lands strangely in your chest, unexpected enough that your stomach gives a faint, uneasy flip.
He pokes around a little bit under the hood, shifting pieces of the engine slightly as he looks, his attention fully absorbed now in the rhythm of checking, listening, adjusting. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he works that makes it feel less like something is wrong and more like something is being solved, even if you don’t understand any of it.
Inside the car, the stillness starts to feel heavier than helpful. You’ve never been good at sitting in uncertainty, especially not when something is happening just a few steps away that you can’t quite see properly. Curiosity starts to win out over exhaustion.
You open the door carefully, the sound of it breaking the quiet, and step out into the morning air. It’s cooler than you expected, sharp enough that it wakes you up a little more than anything else has so far. You take a moment to steady yourself before walking around to the front of the car.
Arthur doesn’t see you approaching, focused on what he’s doing, hands resting near the edge of the engine bay as he leans in slightly. Only when he's leaning down to look closely at the engine does he see a pair of pink heels next to his boots. The contrast makes the corner of his lips lift before he’s fully aware of it.
“You didn’t have to get out,” he says, voice even, not looking at you yet.
You shift your weight slightly, arms folding loosely against the cold. “Yeah, I know. I just couldn’t sit in there anymore.”
And while this mysterious girl hesitates, caught somewhere between exhaustion and reluctant trust, he finds himself watching you a second longer than necessary. He’s intrigued to say the least. You’re a whirlwind, rushing into this sleepy town. The smudgy mascara, red eyes, clearly crying — though Arthur doesn't blame her. An hour away from home, and with a hangover, he’s guessing, and from what he can see, post-party, and his eyes — not purposefully— notice the red marks trail down your collarbones into the tiny dress you’re wearing. Typical, he thinks as he rolls his eyes, just another entitled big town girl rolling through. He’s had his fair share. Though you’re shockingly pretty, he’ll fix the car, send you on your way, and that’ll be the end of it.
“Do you need a jumper? It’s pretty cold out.”
Before you can answer, he undoes his zip-up and drapes it around your shoulders. It’s warm from him still, heavier than expected, settling around you all too naturally.
“Here,” he adds simply, already half-turned back toward the car like it’s just part of the process.
It feels slightly too big, sleeves bunching at your arms, the scent enveloping you, somehow soothing the noise in your head. You hesitate for a second, hands curling loosely into the fabric like you’re not entirely sure what to do with it, but Arthur has already turned back toward the car. And if he notices the way you go still for half a second too long after it settles around you—warm from him, heavy in a way that feels oddly grounding—he doesn’t show it.
Ouch, you think. Does he just give any girl he sees on the side of the road his jumper?
It’s petty, and you know it is almost immediately, especially as you stand there watching him work like you’re the one misreading something simple. It's just fabric over your shoulders because you were cold, and he noticed.
Your gaze drifts past him, past the raised hood and the quiet focus of his hands — lost staring for a second or two — and lands on the small café next door. It’s more charming than you first registered through the fog of your morning—plants along the windows, soft light inside, the faint movement of someone behind the counter who looks barely older than a teenager trying to look awake.
“…sounds like it’s struggling to turn over,” he’s saying to himself — and you find it endearing before you scold yourself— crouched slightly near the hood, voice calm, like this isn’t the worst morning of your life. “Could be the battery, could be—”
“Hey,” you start, your voice a little uncertain at first. You clear your throat, trying again, a bit steadier. “Um—do you maybe want a coffee or tea? From there. It’s… the least I could do.”
Arthur doesn’t answer straight away. He finishes what he’s doing first, like making sure the car is in a stable enough place before he pulls his attention away. When he straightens, he looks over at the café, then back to you. There’s no hesitation in him, just a simple acceptance of the offer.
“Yeah,” he says, roughly. “That’d be nice. Thank you.”
He wipes his hands on his shirt before adding, a little nicer, “Whatever they make there, I’ll take it. Don’t worry too much about it.”
You turn to go, but spin back around with a bite of your lip. “Could I maybe get a name for that cup?”
You’re still standing there in his hoodie, hair slightly windswept from the cold, and Arthur finds—briefly, annoyingly—that his usual annoyance about girls like you doesn’t sit quite as cleanly as it normally does.
Town girls usually come through loud, impatient, half-checked out of whatever place they’ve ended up in. They don’t linger. They don’t look at him like they’re trying to decide whether to trust him while simultaneously acting as if they’ve already decided not to. They don’t stand there wrapped in something that still smells faintly like him, looking like they don’t quite know what to do with the fact they’ve been looked after.
“Arthur,” he adds simply, like it should’ve been obvious.
His attention doesn’t quite snap back to the engine the way it’s supposed to when you turn.
You step into the café and the warmth inside hits immediately, soft and almost disorienting after the sharp morning air, and you’re suddenly very aware of how you must look standing there in the doorway. The bell above the door gives a small, unnecessary jingle that makes you flinch internally more than it should.
The place is quiet in that early-hour way, only half-awake. A teenager behind the counter looks up at you from where they’re half-slumped against the espresso machine, blinking like they’re trying to decide if you’re real or part of their shift hallucination.
You become very aware, very quickly, of yourself.
The hoodie that isn’t yours. The messy hair. The tired face you didn’t get to fix. The fact that you’re still not entirely sure what or who you did last night, and yet you’re now standing in public trying to order coffee like you’re a functioning person. Arthur is outside. Still completely unbothered by the fact that your entire morning has detonated and somehow he’s the only stable thing left in it. That thought lands again, unhelpfully clear now: he does know what he’s doing. Not just with the car, either. With everything, it seems.
Looking at the engine, Arthur doesn’t notice the way the café door swings shut behind you, the soft bell fading into the background. His focus has narrowed again, the rest of the world dimming out as he leans further into the engine bay.
What started as a rough idea has settled into something clearer now, each small check confirming the last. He listens first, head tilted slightly, like the engine might give something away if he’s patient enough. Then his hands follow, steady and deliberate, tracing connections, testing tension, adjusting without hesitation. It’s methodical, logical — exactly what Arthur loves. There’s no frustration in it, no second-guessing. It’s kind of a quiet certainty, like he’s seen this before in a hundred different variations and knows how it usually ends.
He shifts slightly, reaching deeper in, fingers tightening something that had just enough give to be wrong. There’s a pause after, not idle—intentional. He listens again.
Better. Not fixed, but closer. His gaze flicks across the rest of the engine, running through the possibilities quickly now, ruling things out one by one. Whatever’s caused it isn’t catastrophic, but it isn’t something he’s going to fully sort out on the side of the road either. Not properly and not in a way he’d be satisfied sending you off with.
Mystery Girl comes back with 2 coffee cups in hand. You’re closer than before now, two cups in your hands, his hoodie still draped over your shoulders like it’s settled there for good. You must’ve gone to the bathroom and freshened up — no more streaky makeup, just a fresh face. For a second, he just takes that in—the contrast of it, the way you look a little less like you’re about to fall apart and a little more like you’re holding yourself together. The biggest difference, though, is the slight smile on your face.
His gaze drops briefly to the cups, then lifts back to your face, and there’s something warmer in it than before. Still not chummy, but less distant. “Cheers,” he says, like it’s nothing.
He takes it from you, fingers brushing yours for just a second longer than necessary this time. It’s not enough to be obvious, but enough that it doesn’t feel entirely accidental either. He doesn’t pull away quickly, either. He reads the name on your cup.
“Reader. Nice to put a name to the car.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” you say, a little exasperated, and this time he’s looking at you properly.
Without the mess of last night on you, you look less frazzled; your kind eyes and your pretty smile are all too captivating. But he snaps out of it. God, he’s only helping out, and clearly you’re just itching to get back, probably to a boyfriend or something. He’s trying very hard to ignore the reddish hickies dotting you. You’re just passing through. Whatever’s brought you here, it isn’t him.
He glances down at the cup, then back up again, something faintly amused settling at the corner of his mouth.
“You went with coffee,” he notes, tone light.
You hesitate, suddenly aware of it. “Was that wrong?”
He shakes his head slightly, a quiet exhale of a smile following.
“No,” he says, “Not wrong. Just means you don’t know me yet.”
He takes a sip, eyes still on you for a second longer than necessary before his attention shifts back toward the car, like he’s giving you space again without fully stepping away.
“I usually go for tea,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.
He takes a small sip, more out of habit than anything, then glances back toward the open hood, the practical side of him settling back in.
“It’ll run,” he adds, nodding faintly toward the car. “At least enough to get moving. But I wouldn’t trust it for an hour drive like that.”
He looks back at you then, a little more direct this time, like he’s offering something rather than just stating it.
“If you’re alright with coming back, I can take it there and sort it properly.”
Mystery Girl bites her lips into a pout, and worry graces her face, making something arise within Arthur before he knocks it off.
“…You’re not going to, like, disappear with my car, are you?” you ask hesitantly.
“Not a great business model,” he says, tone easy. “Hard to run a garage if I start stealing the cars that show up.”
That makes you laugh, a strange, proud feeling purring in Arthur’s chest. The tinkling sound of your laughter goes straight to my head, pocketing it and saving it.
“…Okay,” you say, a little more certain this time. “Yeah. I’ll come.”
Arthur hooks the truck up to your Mini with the kind of efficiency that suggests he’s done this more times than he’d probably admit. The chain clicks into place, the car shifting slightly as it settles behind his vehicle, obedient now in a way it wasn’t an hour ago.
You keep checking the side mirror, antsy to look presentable, for no specific reason at all. You adjust your hair once, then again, then stop when you realise there’s nothing you can actually fix from here.
Your eyes are almost magnetically attracted to his hands. His large hand effortlessly steering, sleeves rolled, and veins popping. His forearms are tanned, so tanned. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely, driving steady like the road itself isn’t worth rushing. Arthur’s focused profile sits just ahead of you, jaw relaxed but intent, eyes tracking the road with the kind of concentration that makes it look easy. It’s annoyingly steady. And annoyingly hot.
“...and that’s basically it, I think, once I get to the garage, it’ll be brand new. Well..”
He’s in the middle of speaking to you when it finally registers with him.
“You okay there?” he asks, voice lightly smug but like he’s trying to mask it for your sake.
Your throat tightens slightly, and you cough, a little too quickly, being caught staring so shamelessly.“Yeah,” you manage, immediately too casual. “Fine. Just—road. Distracting.”
Arthur hums once, like he’s not buying it at all, but he doesn’t push. His attention returns to the road, though the corner of his mouth lifts slightly anyway.
You’re antsy in his car, fidgeting, tapping your fingers against the skin of your bare thigh. The crackling sound of his radio fills the space between you, some old Arctic Monkeys song playing.
“It’s not far,” he says. “You’ll survive.”
The road narrows as they turn off the main stretch, trees closing in a little tighter on either side like the town is trying to keep this place tucked away. The truck’s engine shifts pitch as Arthur slows, guiding them down. The garage comes into view gradually rather than dramatically—no big signage trying to impress anyone, just a functional building that’s clearly been here long enough to earn its status . The roller door is already halfway up, and there’s the faint smell of oil and metal in the air before you even properly stop.
“We’re here,” he adds, matter-of-fact. “You can wait in the truck if you want,” he says, then corrects himself slightly. “Or come in. Up to you. Just have a seat inside while I get your Mini in here.”
You hop out of his big truck, trying to land carefully in the heels that could definitely roll your ankle. He doesn’t make a thing of it. Just moves around to the back, focus shifting immediately back to the job in front of him. The earlier conversation seems to get filed away somewhere for later—or maybe just not at all.
He unhooks the chain without fuss, the motions efficient and unshowy, like his hands know exactly what they’re doing without needing permission from anything else. Your Mini shifts slightly as it’s freed, settling back onto its own wheels with a quiet weight that makes you realise how dependent you’ve been on his truck getting you here at all.
“Can I borrow your phone, maybe? I should call my friend, tell her I’m alive.”
He nods easily. “It's in the jacket I gave you.”
You fish it out, his phone in your hand. The lockscreen is Arthur—same messy hair, same steady expression—but softer somehow, caught candidly smiling. He’s holding a little girl, tucked into him with a familiarity that doesn’t need explaining. She’s laughing, his arm around her. You don’t mean to stare at it for as long as you do, but it holds your attention anyway. He doesn’t look like someone who would end up involved in your kind of morning.
He laughs at that, and it’s short, genuine, almost disbelieving, like you’ve just suggested something wildly out of character for him.
“No,” he says, turning his attention back to the road, still smiling faintly. “God, no. That’s my sister. Anyway, the reception’s better inside, might want to call her there.”
You nod and turn to go inside the garage, which captivates you. It’s all brick walls and high ceilings. There are racks and racks of tools—some neatly arranged, others clearly returned wherever there was space at the time. Metal cabinets line one side, drawers half-labelled or not labelled at all, the kind of organisation that only makes sense to the person who lives in it. Old signs hangs on the walls, slightly crooked, faded advertisements and vintage metal plates that don’t match anything else in the room, with huge steel beams within the garage. There are stray gloves everywhere, and tyres stacked up. It’s big enough to swallow you whole.
You quickly dial your friend’s number, waiting impatiently for her to pick up. You start to lose hope after the 3rd ring, same old anxiousness reappearing in your stomach and then —
Relief hits so fast you finally breathe.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, the words coming out in a rush. “Okay, so basically—”
“Girl? What’s going on? Where are you?”
You let out a small, shaky laugh, dragging a hand over your face as you glance back toward the garage floor again.
“In the middle of nowhere,” you say, only half exaggerating. “My car broke down. I’m at some garage—I don’t even know what town this is. I’m an hour from home.”
“Jesus,” you hear your friend process, “I thought you went home with… um.. what’s-his-face?”
“Yeah,” you cut in quickly, wincing a little. “I did.”
“Oh, my god. Don’t tell me—”
“Save the lecture, I'm annoyed at myself too,” you admit, lowering your voice slightly. “I woke up, left, got in my car, and now it’s dead. Like, fully dead.”
“And you’re safe?” your friend asks, more serious now.
You look back at Arthur, face concentrated as he pulls your car in, eyebrows furrowed together.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m safe. There’s this guy,” you add, glancing instinctively toward the open space of the garage. “He’s the mechanic. It’s his place.”
You huff out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“He’s an asshole,” you say, honest without thinking.
“That’s concerning,” your friend replies immediately.
“He’s… blunt,” you settle on. “Almost painfully. But he knows what he’s doing. With the car, I mean.”
“And with you?” your friend teases lightly.
You roll your eyes, even though she can’t see it.
“No,” you say quickly. “God, no. If anything, I think he actively dislikes me.”
There’s a small pause on the line.
You groan softly, dragging a hand over your face again. “I hate you.”
“I’ve known him for twenty minutes,” you shoot back. “And he called me a city girl like it was an insult. ”
You press your lips together, glancing toward the open garage again, where you can just make out movement—him, probably, still working as if nothing else exists.
"Annoyingly,” you admit under your breath.
Your friend makes a noise of triumph on the other end.
“No, you’re not,” you say immediately. “It’s fine. He said he can tow it to his garage—well, we’re already here— he's fixing it properly. I’ll just wait it out.”
You hesitate again, then glance down at the hoodie still wrapped around you, at the strange, steady feeling sitting underneath all the chaos of the morning, at the moody man with rolled up sleeves, who’s working meticulously on your stupid car.
“…Yeah,” you say, quieter this time. “I think I am.”