23. 23
I Know She Ain’t Ready – Luke Combs
I wake up slower than usual.
Not groggy, exactly. Just… heavy. Weighed down by something I can’t shake. The sun’s rays light up my room through the crack in the blinds, and I toss my forearm over my eyes, trying to ignore the thrum in my chest. It’s not anxiety. Not really.
But it’s sure as fuck not peace either.
“I’m not looking for anything. Not now. Not… probably ever.” Right. That.
I sit up with a grunt, dragging a hand down my face. I should feel relieved. Grateful, even. She laid it out, she opened up. She’s not looking. Which means I don’t have to pretend like I am. “As a friend.” Yeah, that’s what I said, too.
It was supposed to be simple. Something solid to fall back on when this whole thing inevitably gets too complicated.
But even as I said the words, something inside me pulled tight.
Because I don’t know if I meant it. Not fully.
Not when I keep replaying her voice, her face, the way her fucking eyes went glassy when she said she walked away. But that’s not what sticks.
It’s the other stuff. The shit she didn’t mean to let slip, but did anyway.
The crack in her voice when she talked about leaving. The way her hand kept rubbing that bare ring finger, like it still burned. Like there was a memory ghosting across her skin that she couldn’t shake. And the look on her face when I called her Zoe.
Not Freckles. Not a joke. Just her given name.
And fuck me, if it didn’t feel like saying her name out loud gave it more weight. Like I’d spoken something I shouldn’t have. Like I’d crossed a line I had no business crossing.
And what pisses me off the most? The part I can’t shake?
“Did he do something to hurt you?”
Her answer wasn’t simple. Wasn’t no. It wasn’t a concrete yes either.
It was that in-between. The complicated kind.
The kind of pain that lingers in your bones.
And I swear to God, I’ve been trying not to spiral ever since.
But my brain? Yeah, it doesn’t listen to logic.
Because hurt can mean a lot of things. It can be emotional. Mental.
Subtle shit no one sees. But all I can picture is someone laying a hand on her.
And yeah, maybe that makes me a possessive asshole. Maybe I’ve got no right to feel it. She’s not mine . We’ve barely scratched the surface of whatever this is. If there even is a this. I’m not even making sense at this point, but fuck if it doesn’t piss me the fuck off.
What kind of low-life fuck thinks it’s okay to hurt a woman? Or anyone for that matter? Let alone someone like her—sharp-tongued, all fire and bite and buried fragility. The kind of fragility you have to earn your way past. That takes strength just to carry.
But what do I know? My jaw flexes as I swing my legs over the bed. My boots are still by the door, my jeans and shirt from last night crumpled on the floor where I dropped them. And no, I didn’t throw them in the wash. I never learned how, because Mum still does it for me.
Every time she tries to teach me, I tune out. She says it’s a skill I’ll regret not learning. Maybe she’s right. But fuck it. We all have our flaws.
I walk over and grab my shirt, but something makes me pause.
A scent. Something floral. Rose? I don’t know what the fuck it’s supposed to be, but it smells like something expensive.
Something you spray once, and it lingers for hours.
Long after the person’s gone. It’s her scent.
Embedded into the bloody fabric. I bring it closer, just for a second. Just to confirm.
A little sweet, but a whole lot spicy. Just like her.
I close my eyes inadvertently and breathe it in—because I hate myself apparently—just for a second. Once I realise what the fuck I’m doing, I curse under my breath and shove the shirt in the laundry basket by the door and get changed for work, flicking off the small lamp on my bedside table.
This is fucking ridiculous. I don’t do this. I’m not that guy.
I’m not the one thinking about how that woman fit so well behind me on a bike seat.
Or how her hands tightened around me like I wouldn’t notice. Like I wouldn’t pay attention.
If there’s one thing Zoe needs to know about me, it’s that I’m one observant motherfucker. Always have been. Always will be. I’m the guy who keeps his head down. Gets the job done and doesn’t get involved.
I’m definitely a guy who doesn’t get twisted up over a woman who says she’s not looking for anything. So why does it feel like I’m already in too deep? I don’t have the answer. Which is probably why I’m halfway to Joe’s Auto before I realise I haven’t even eaten anything.
As I walk into the workshop, I’m hit with the familiar aroma of engine oil and burnt coffee. A comfort I didn’t realise I needed until now. My stomach groans in protest. Yeah, I should probably eat something before I become ‘hangry’, as Harrison puts it.
He’s already elbow-deep in a gearbox, grease smudged across his forehead. He glances up when I walk in, eyes narrowing before he speaks. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.” I toss my keys on the bench and roll my shoulders.
His grin spreads. Predictable. “Or maybe…” He tilts his head, assessing. “You look like a man who didn’t sleep alone last night.”
I shoot him a warning look. “You done?”
“Not even close.” He sets a screwdriver down and wipes his hands on an old rag. “So, are we talking literal ‘not alone’? Or emotionally not alone? Because you’ve got that look. That dazed, far-off expression. You don’t do dazed, Mikey boy.”
I don’t answer. Just move past him to the back bench, where Joe left out the parts invoice from yesterday. Paperwork. Something boring. Something safe.
The silence that stretches between us is thick and self-satisfied on Harrison’s part. He knows me too well. That’s the problem with brothers. They don’t need answers to know the truth. The front roller door rattles, and Xavier strolls in, coffee tray in hand, sunnies still on despite being inside.
“Morning, grease monkeys. You’re welcome.”
I reach for the iced long black without looking up. “What broke this time?”
“Battery keeps dying. Pretty sure it’s the alternator, but I figured I’d let the professionals confirm before I made it worse,” Xavier grumbles, dropping onto the old barstool near the bench.
I grunt. “You want it fixed or just made worse with flair?”
He points at me. “You say that like they’re not the same outcome.”
Harrison snorts. “He’s just bitter because he’s got a crush.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but they both catch the twitch in my jaw. The way I don’t argue. Because they’re not wrong. Not entirely. And it’s easier to let them tease, easier to roll my eyes and act unaffected, than admit what’s actually got me fucked up today.
I’ve been checking my phone like a goddamn idiot. I even drafted a text about Sprinkles three times before I finally settled on:
I hope Sprinkles hasn’t destroyed anything today.
Maybe I should get her a jungle gym?
Still no reply. Not that I’m checking.
I force myself into work. Hands to metal. Head down. Strip a bolt. Replace a radiator seal. Anything that keeps me moving. Busy. Distracted. But the quiet moments sneak in anyway. And in those moments? It’s always her.
And fuck me, if that doesn’t sit heavy in my chest. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I know I’m not done thinking about her. Not even close.
The door creaks as I push into the granny flat, the stale scent of silence greeting me like an old friend. There’s nothing but the soft buzz of the fridge and the faint echo of my footsteps as I step inside and kick off my shoes.
Three-seater lounge, one TV, no coffee table.
Just an empty bedroom that I sleep in, not live in.
I never bothered to fill the place out, because what for?
Visits from my friends and family are rare.
Everyone has their own thing going on now.
I eat standing up. Watch the footy from the floor.
I’ve got what I need. Except tonight, it feels…
hollow. I grab a beer from the fridge, the cold glass sweating in my palm.
I don’t even take a sip before I sit on the edge of the lounge and pull my phone from my pocket. My pulse kicks.
Because there’s a text notification. Not just one, but two texts from Zoe.
Zoe : A jungle gym? Do I even want to look it up?
Zoe : But no. She’s actually been pretty good today.
A smile tugs at the edge of my mouth before I can stop it. I type back quickly.
Me : I’d say progress. Might need to call Isla and let her know she’s officially reformed.
Zoe : Don’t jinx it. I’ve still got the rest of the night to survive. That’s usually when she goes feral.
Me : Ah, the good ol’ zoomies.
Zoe : Zoomies? Is that a Gen Z term?
Me : Yeah, probs. It’s what you call it when animals get random bursts of energy. For cats it’s usually at night because they nap most of the day. Plus hunting instincts n all that.
Zoe : And you know this because?
Me : I googled it. Your age is showing, Freckles.
Zoe : You don’t know my age.
I stare at the screen, lips twitching. My thumb hovers like I’ve got something else to say, but I don’t. Not anything I should, anyway. That was… normal, right? No dryness, no avoidance. Which brings me to the part that’s now eating at my brain. I have no idea how old she actually is.
It’s not exactly something I’d thought about until now. But her reaction when I’d told her I was twenty-seven? Yeah. That look wasn’t “oh, same,” it was more like “oh… yikes.”
So how far off are we talking? Five years? Eight?
I shake my head. I’m not gonna be that guy, pushing for numbers like it matters. Because it shouldn’t. Except now I want to know. And I don’t know what’s worse—how curious I’ve suddenly become about her, or the fact that none of this is casual anymore.
This was supposed to be simple. She was supposed to be a firecracker I steered clear of.