Chapter 3
Elias
So I may or may not have parked the ambulance across the street from Iron Wheel Garage.
I’m not stalking, exactly. I just know she’s in there, and Jax may or may not be getting ready to bother the shit out of a woman who could probably bench-press him if she felt like it.
I tell myself I’m here as a precaution for him, which is a lie I don’t even bother selling very hard.
If I’m honest, I’m here to see her. To make sure the bruise along her cheekbone from last week’s fight has faded the way it should, to check whether she’s fighting again this week, and to be close enough to patch anything that gets past her defenses if it does. I don’t think much ever does.
“Uh-huh.” Manny leans back in the passenger seat like he’s settled in for a show. “So we just happen to be parked across from a mechanic shop, on our break, with the engine still running, because… what? Fate?”
I keep my eyes forward. “Eat your sandwich.”
He grins, wedding band catching the light when he lifts his hand. He’s been like this since the honeymoon, relaxed in a way that makes him unbearable. “You know, my wife would call this lurking.”
“I’m not lurking.”
“You’ve been staring at the same woman for five minutes.” He nods toward the open bay door. “Pretty sure that qualifies.”
Across the street, the roll-up door’s halfway open, and “My Way” by Limp Bizkit pounds against the brick, the bass vibrating faintly through the pavement.
She’s bent over a bike frame near the front, streaks of hair slipping loose around her face, elbows braced as she works like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. There’s a rag tucked into her back pocket. She hasn’t looked up once.
“I’m going in,” I decide, already reaching for the door.
Manny laughs and points at me. “You go do your serious, broody thing. I’ll stay here and guard the rig.” He pauses, grin widening. “Take your time. Shoot your shot. I’ll even give you a ten-minute warning before the break's over.”
“I’m not shooting anything,” I mutter, stepping down onto the curb.
“Sure,” he calls after me. “And I totally didn’t flirt with a nurse for six months before I married her.”
I ignore him and cross the street before he can say anything else.
The bell above the door gives a thin little chime when I step inside. She tightens the wrench one last time before straightening, like she felt me coming, and her eyes flick over me in a quick, assessing sweep that makes my spine go straighter than it has any right to.
“No one out there needs saving?” she asks, voice dry as dust.
“Not currently.” I tap the radio clipped to my pants like it might rat me out. “So I’m taking a fifteen-minute break. Don’t tell dispatch.”
That gets the faintest lift of her brow, barely there. Almost a smile, if I’m being generous.
“You need something?” She shifts away from the bike for a second, just enough to acknowledge me.
“Yeah.” The word’s out before I’ve had time to soften it. “I wanted to see if you’re okay.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s weighing the truth of that instead of dismissing it outright. “I’m fine.”
I nod and take a small step forward, careful not to crowd her. “I figured you’d say that.”
She leans back against the bench, wiping her hands on the rag like she’s grounding herself. “Most people don’t stalk women to check on their health.”
“Most women don’t walk into fights willingly.”
Her mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and irritation. “So this is you doing what? Your civic duty?”
I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “Call it preventative care.”
“You’re an EMT, not my PCP.”
“Sometimes the line blurs.” My gaze drops to her hands, to one split knuckle and another taped over. “Those aren’t healed.”
She glances down and flexes her fingers like she hadn’t even registered it. “They’re healed enough.”
“There’s no such thing as enough.” The edge in my voice surprises even me. “It’s either healed, or it’s not. There’s no in-between.”
Her eyes lock on mine, almost as if she's trying to determine how sincere I'm being. “There is when rent’s due.”
That hits me harder than she probably meant it to, and my chest tightens. But she doesn’t elaborate, just turns back to the bike, twisting the wrench again like this conversation’s already over.
I take another step closer anyway, sliding my hands into my vest pockets. “You could tape better.”
“Are you offering lessons?”
“I'm offering to do it for you. It'll be better, more efficient.”
She snorts, but it’s softer this time, something between disbelief and amusement. “You gonna charge me thirty bucks like I did your friend?”
“Free of charge.” I smile, feeling myself getting closer to a yes. “Consider it an EMT discount.”
She shakes her head as a low chuckle slips out. “You’re not subtle.”
“Not trying to be.” I lift my brows, a little cheeky, thinking if she clocked it, then she wants it.
Yes, babe. I'm flirting.
That earns me another glance, longer this time, as if she's testing whether I mean what I say.
She sets the wrench down and rolls her shoulders once, like she’s loosening tension she won’t admit to carrying. “You hover too much.” She lifts her chin in a quiet challenge.
I shrug, easy, surprised by how natural it feels around her. “Occupational hazard.”
“And you’re always like this?” Her gaze stays on me now, curious instead of sharp. “Watching people. Waiting to jump in?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
She studies me more carefully, like she’s not used to people who look this closely without wanting something in return. “And you chose it anyway?”
“I did.” I tip my head, matter-of-fact. “Somebody has to.”
She pulls the rag from her pocket and wipes her hands as she stands, buying herself a second before meeting my eyes head-on. “Two minutes. If you make it worse, you owe me money.”
“Deal.” I close the distance in a few unhurried steps, already reaching into my vest for a fresh roll of tape.
I leave my gloves off when I take her hand, turning it palm-up with care and holding it like it matters.
Her skin is warm and rough from work, familiar in a way that makes me slow down without thinking.
I catalog the scars automatically, the old nicks and bruises, the raised ridge near the base of her finger where something split once and never healed quite right, my thumb passing over it like I’m tracing a route I want to remember.
“Pressure here, on this point.” I guide her gently as I set the first wrap, my focus on her fingers. “It stabilizes the joints and keeps you from reopening them. Helps when you wrap the pressure points.”
She watches my face like she’s waiting for the catch. “You do this for everyone?”
“No.” The answer comes easy, because it’s true.
“Then why me?”
I meet her eyes briefly before dropping my attention back to her knuckles. “Because something tells me you’ll fight with or without it, and I’d rather you not ruin your hand.”
That earns me the faintest ghost of a smile, just a tug at one corner of her mouth. “You’re pretty demanding.”
“Nah.” I adjust the tape with practiced confidence, the kind that comes from repetition. “I’m experienced.”
She huffs once, the sound landing closer to a laugh than she probably intended.
I lay the strip snug, loop it, anchor it, and smooth the tape with my thumb, catching myself checking capillary refill out of habit just as she notices.
“You going to ask me to wiggle my fingers too?” she asks, smirking for real this time.
“Please don’t make me.” I gesture for her to do so anyway.
She flexes, wiggling her fingers before curling them into tight fists. “Satisfied?”
“Almost.”
I keep my eyes on the wrap. Holding her hand already feels intimate enough without adding eye contact. Her pulse is steady beneath my thumb, grounding in a way I don’t comment on, even as I feel her attention stay with me, observant rather than invasive.
“You fight to make rent,” I say quietly, the thought finally breaking free. “You going to tell me more? Most people don’t go that far for their businesses.”
“No.” She shakes her head once, then exhales. “Yes. I don’t know. People hear it and start offering help I don’t want.”
“I wasn’t offering help.” I lift my gaze to hers, steady. “Just a listening ear.”
“That’s worse sometimes.”
“Okay.” I nod. “Fair.”
She looks at me like she expected me to push and recalibrates when I don’t.
The shop goes quiet for a few seconds, broken only by a unit check crackling over a radio that isn’t mine. I ignore it, finishing the final anchor and smoothing it down. “There. That’s better.”
She brings her hand to her mouth and nips the edge of the tape, testing it. “Not bad.”
“Not good enough, though.”
This time she smiles, small but real, and it does something unwelcome to my chest.
Diagnosis: I’m fucked.
“Time’s up, medic.” There's no bite in it now, the tension from earlier gone with each careful wrap.
“Yeah.” I check my watch for show, even though I’ve been counting the seconds the whole time. “It is.”
Even then, I don’t move right away. My boots stay planted like the floor’s claimed me. She lifts a brow, that same almost-smile tugging at her mouth.
“Go save someone else.” She shoos me with one hand, head shaking.
I smile and nod, already backing away. “Next time, I’m bringing tape for you to keep.”
“Don’t bother.”
“I still will.” I set the roll on the bench anyway. “For now, here’s this one.”
“Bring coffee instead,” she adds, like the words slipped out before she could stop them.
My mouth pulls into something softer. “Noted.”
She flips the wrench in her palm and points it toward the door. “Go.”
The bell gives another tired chime as I step back into the street, back to work, back to everything else. My head, though, stays right where I left it, in the garage with her.