Chapter 11 Definitely Not Blushing
Theo
I’m finally back in town, and the first place I want to go is Iron Wheel Garage.
The need to see her—to make sure she’s still in one piece—has been eating at me for the last forty-eight hours.
With me, there’s no grand gestures, no charm, no overbearing protectiveness.
Just quiet company and practical fixes. So when I open her door and hear that tired jingle from the bell overhead, I already know why I’m here.
Her eyes flick up, assessing me with a small smirk she tries and fails to hide.
“How bad did you do?” she asks, barely glancing away from the bike frame in front of her.
“What makes you think I did badly?”
She arches a brow like the answer is obvious and she’s only humoring me by asking.
“Yeah, alright. I did badly.”
I scratch the back of my neck—old nervous habit that refuses to die. “I’m not a people person.”
“Machines.” She nods like she understands. “They’re easier to handle.”
“Listen,” I start, gathering whatever courage I scraped together on the drive over. “Elias told me what’s going on with you. With Bash.”
She sighs, the kind that says she saw this coming and hoped I wouldn’t bring it up.
“Yeah? And?”
“And…” I drop my hand, standing a little straighter. “Let me look at your books.”
That gets her attention. She straightens too, wiping her hands on a rag.
“My books?”
“Yeah. Expenses, budgets, vendors. All of it,” I utter, forcing the confidence into my voice as I lift my chin and pretend my pulse isn’t doing something embarrassing. “Let me see everything and work my magic.”
“Oh yeah, Theo?” She scoffs, the sound sharp as she shakes her head, skepticism cutting through every syllable. “You think fixing the books will help?”
The words dig more than they should, and I feel it in my chest first, then my throat, but I swallow it down and keep my face steady.
“Yeah.” I answer, quieter now as I hold her gaze anyway, because backing down would make it worse. “At least a little, and at this point, every dollar matters.”
Raine exhales, and something like remorse flickers in her eyes before she turns away. She heads to the counter, bends behind it, and starts hauling up books that look like they’ve survived a war.
Are those… crumpled receipts?
I cringe as if the crinkled paper physically assaulted me.
“Have at it, Professor,” she says over her shoulder with a tired edge, flicking a hand at the paper disaster before she returns to her bike frame as if this conversation never happened.
“Not you too,” I groan, dragging a hand down my face as I stare at the mess like it might start multiplying on its own.
I really do hate that nickname.
She doesn’t answer, and I don’t let myself hesitate longer. I crack open the books and start organizing the chaos.
It takes hours—actual hours—before I figure out she’s a disaster on paper but shockingly efficient in practice. She stretches every dollar she has. Cuts corners without cutting quality. She’s got a system, and it works, but I still find a few places she can save.
None of which put her deeper in Bash’s pocket.
“You always this laser-focused when you’re working?” she asks over the music, the familiar sound of I Don’t Love You by My Chemical Romance humming through the shop, and she keeps her eyes on the bike frame like she’s trying to act casual about watching me.
“When it matters,” I tell her without looking up, because if I do, I’ll get distracted, and she’ll pretend she didn’t like being the reason.
I take the water she holds out, fingers brushing hers over the plastic before I manage to pull my hand back. “Thanks.”
She uncaps her bottle, lifts it toward her lips, then pauses mid-motion as if she’s been fighting the question and finally lost.
“So.” She drags the word out with that fake-casual tone she uses when she’s actually curious. “Did you save me any money?”
Her brow lifts, all challenge and confidence in her budgeting, and it makes something in me tighten, not nerves exactly… more like the need to prove I’m not just talk.
It really is good.
“Yeah,” I answer, and I can’t help the small edge of pride that slips in. “Actually, I did.”
She almost chokes on her water, clearly not expecting that. She swallows hard, taps her chest like she’s rebooting, and then her eyes snap to mine.
“Show me,” she demands, already stepping in at my side so fast her shoulder bumps into mine and stays there, like she doesn’t notice… or she does and just refuses to acknowledge it.
I swallow, lean forward, and point to the numbers before my brain can spiral about how close she is. “Here, here, and here.”
Her brows pinch as she studies each line, completely absorbed.
Her focus is… beautiful. The seriousness.
The care. How every piece of this shop matters to her.
It’s in the grease on her hands, the stubborn precision she puts into everything she touches, the way she takes care of it all. I can’t help but admire it.
“Can I really do that without losing efficiency?” Her voice drops, like she’s afraid the question itself might jinx it. “I don’t want the quality of my work to suffer.”
“I’d never suggest anything that makes you look sloppy.” I keep my tone even, deliberate. “Not your work. Not your shop.” I hold her gaze a second longer than necessary. “You can trust me.”
She studies the numbers again, jaw tight like she’s negotiating with herself before her gaze meets mine again.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Just like that?”
I’d told her to trust me, sure. I’d still expected at least a little fight.
“Just like that.” She turns back to her bike, already moving like the decision’s filed away and done. “It’s not a you thing. I can just follow the numbers.”
“I’ll try not to take that personally.”
She pops her bottle open again, unfazed. “Take it however you want.”
She’s already focused on the bike frame, wiping her hands on her jeans before crouching beside it. I stand there for a beat, useless, trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now that the books are handled. My hand goes to the back of my neck again.
I know I'm doing it. Just can't seem to stop myself.
I blink once, like my brain has to switch tracks from watching her to being useful. “Good.”
“Great.” She's already turning back to the bike. “Then come help me so I can actually get out of here tonight.”
I move toward her, trying to keep it casual, but my body’s a traitor.
Careful, eager, too aware of the space between us shrinking with every step.
The tension settles, shifting into something quieter that I don’t know what to do with.
Comfortable, almost warm, like the shop itself is letting out a breath.
“Yeah,” I drop to a knee beside her, close enough that I can feel the warmth from her body. “I can do that.”
My heart is loud, obnoxious, completely uninterested in subtlety, but I make my hands behave.
I grab the tool I need, line everything up, and get to work like this is the only thing in the world that matters, even though it isn’t.
The quiet settles around us the way it does when you’re both focused, when the only sounds are the small clicks of hardware and the soft scrape of movements, like we’ve done this a hundred times instead of never.
She braces the frame with one hand while I work, leaning in to watch what I’m doing, and her knee brushes mine in the process.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not even slow. Just a quick, accidental contact that still lands like a warning.
She doesn’t move away, and neither do I, so the warmth of it lingers in my head longer than it has any right to.
“Yeah, that’s good,” she murmurs, tightening a bolt on her side while I set the bearing. “Most people over crank that.”
“I know.” I adjust my grip and keep the pressure steady, controlled. “I’ve fixed enough stripped threads to last a lifetime.”
Her lips curl just enough to count, small and soft in a way that makes my chest go tight. A Raine smile. Something she doesn’t hand out for free, a smile you earn without realizing you’re trying, and I feel it like a quiet reward.
She shifts, reaching across me for another tool. Her forearm grazes mine, warm. It’s barely a touch, but my pulse jumps like it forgot we're supposed to be playing it cool.
She doesn’t comment. Doesn’t pull away. Just works beside me, confident and focused in a way I find stupidly sexy.
Her eyes cut sideways at me. A soft look I've never seen before.
“Hey.” Her voice stays low, tucked under the music like she doesn’t want anyone else hearing it. “You’re good at this.”
Why does that hit so hard?
“Thanks,” I murmur, and it comes out rougher than I mean it to. I swallow, trying to ignore the tight pull in my chest.
“It’s nice,” she adds, still focused on the bike like she didn’t just knock the air out of me, “having someone to actually build with again.”
There’s nothing flirty in it. No sass, no smirk, no challenge. Just… honest.
“Yeah.” My voice drops without me telling it to. “It is nice.”
For the first time since I walked in, I stop running every second through my head. I just breathe.
Raine leans in to check something near the lower bracket, and her hair slips forward over her cheek, cutting off her view. She shifts, annoyed, and before I can talk myself out of it, my hand moves.
My fingers brush her cheek as I tuck the strand behind her ear.
“It’s easier to see this angle if…” I start, then trail off, suddenly very aware of what I’m doing.
My hand freezes halfway back. I’m already bracing for her to shove me off the bike or tell me to back the hell up. She goes still.
“You can touch me, Theo,” she murmurs, eyes still on the frame. “I won’t bite.”
My brain flatlines for a second, because did she really just give me permission?
She’s really okay with me touching her like that?
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” I clear my throat, because apparently that’s who I am now. “Good to know.”
Great. Nailed that response.