Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The drive was silent.
Tool rested his head back against the seat, one hand draped over his knee, the other clutching his keys in a loose fist. Brandi kept both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, even though she could feel the weight of him beside her like a second heartbeat.
The closer they got to the garage, the heavier the air became.
Not awkward. Just full. With everything unsaid. With everything they hadn’t been.
She pulled into the lot behind the shop, parking in the same spot she had the night she brought him dinner. The lights were off inside the garage, but the stairwell to the apartment glowed amber behind the glass door.
“You got your key?” she asked, turning the engine off.
Tool gave a nod and climbed out, surprisingly steady for a man who could barely string a sentence together ten minutes ago. She followed him up the steps, keeping close in case he stumbled, but he didn’t. He unlocked the door, letting her step inside first.
The apartment was small—one wide-open room above the shop with a mattress in the corner, a couch that had seen better years, and a table cluttered with bike parts and unopened mail. A single bulb in the kitchen cast a soft yellow haze over the room.
He kicked the door shut behind him and stood there a moment, like he wasn’t sure what to do with her.
Brandi set her bag on the table, peeled off her jacket, and turned to him. “You should sit down.”
Tool hesitated, then dropped onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head hanging between his shoulders.
“You don’t have to stay,” he muttered.
She crossed her arms. “But you want me to.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.
Brandi moved to the small kitchen and found a glass. She filled it with water and brought it to him. He didn’t reach for it, so she crouched in front of him, nudging it into his hand.
“Drink,” she said.
Tool lifted it slowly, took a few sips, then set it on the floor. His hands dropped back between his knees. When she started to stand, his hand caught her wrist.
“You don’t have to fix me, Brandi.”
Her breath caught.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” she said. “I’m trying to remind you that you’re worth showing up for.”
He looked at her then—really looked at her. And whatever was buried deep in him flickered behind his eyes. Pain. Regret. Want. All wrapped up in silence.
“I shouldn’t have let you walk away,” he said. “Not after that wreck. Not after the way I handled everything.”
“No,” she agreed quietly. “You shouldn’t have.”
He nodded, like he expected that. Like he didn’t deserve less.
Still crouched in front of him, she brought her hand to his face, letting her thumb skim across the rough stubble at his jaw. “But I came back. That has to count for something.”
Tool leaned into her touch, just a fraction. Just enough to feel it.
“You can stay,” he said, voice almost broken. “If you want.”
“I do,” she whispered. “But I’m not staying to pick up your pieces. I’m staying because I want to know who you are when you’re not hiding behind the wreckage.”
He didn’t kiss her again. Not yet. He just pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her neck.
Brandi sank into him, arms around his back, heart thudding steady as she held him there grounding him, holding the line until he could find his way through the fog.
Tonight wasn’t about heat or lust or old wounds. It was about something simpler.
The apartment was quiet. Just the hum of the fridge and the muted tick of a wall clock somewhere behind them. Tool hadn’t moved from the couch, but his grip on her waist had tightened, as if he realized she wasn’t going to disappear.
Brandi didn’t rush him.
She sat with him like that, bodies close, her fingers slowly tracing the tattoos on his arm. There was something unspoken between them—thick and crackling like the summer air before a storm. When Tool finally looked up, his eyes were clearer, but still dark with everything he hadn’t said.
“You sure you want to stay?” he asked again, voice low and rough.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
His hand slid up her back, slow and warm, until it reached the nape of her neck. He cradled her there like he was holding something breakable. She leaned in—nose brushing his, lips barely grazing.
“Then stay,” he murmured, just before their mouths met.
The kiss started softly. Gentle. Just mouths reacquainting. But it deepened quickly, hunger stirring beneath the surface. Brandi climbed into his lap without hesitation, knees bracketing his thighs as his arms locked around her.
She tasted whiskey on his tongue and heat in the way he kissed her—like he was afraid she’d change her mind if he let her go. But she didn’t. She sank into him, fingers curling into his hair, her body molding to his like it had always belonged there.
When they finally broke apart, breath ragged, Tool rested his forehead against hers.
“You undo me,” he whispered.
“Good,” she breathed back.
Tool stood, taking her hand without a word.
He led her past the couch, past the cluttered table and the dim kitchen light, into the bedroom tucked behind a half-open sliding door.
It wasn’t much—just a mattress on a low frame, sheets in disarray, and the soft scent of clean laundry clinging to the room. But it was his space.
And tonight, it would be theirs.
He turned to her in the dark, the only light coming from the kitchen spilling across the floor. His hand came up, fingers curling around the back of her neck. His touch was firm, familiar, reverent.
“You sure?” he asked again, voice low and husky.
Brandi stepped in, closing the small space between them. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
That was all he needed.
He kissed her again, deeper this time—less hesitant, more need.
She melted into it, hands sliding under his shirt as his fingers gripped her waist. Clothes came off slowly, piece by piece, like they were unwrapping each other after too long apart.
Her shirt hit the floor. Then his. Her jeans.
His belt. Skin met skin in warm, aching contact that made them both shudder.
When he finally laid her back on the bed, his body hovered above hers—eyes locked on hers as if he was still waiting for her to vanish.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.
Tool dipped his head and kissed her again, slower this time, drawing it out.
His hands moved down her body with practiced care, learning her all over again.
Brandi’s breath caught when he dragged his mouth along her collarbone, his stubble rasping lightly against her skin.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him back to her lips as their bodies tangled.
It wasn’t rushed.
It was needed.
He moved with patience, with focus, like every stroke of his hands, every kiss across her throat and chest was a vow. And when he finally slid into her, they both exhaled like they’d been holding their breath for months.
Her legs wrapped around his waist. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Their bodies moved together in a rhythm that was slow, steady, consuming. It was messy in the way real love could be—intimate, heavy, honest.
She moaned his name when he dropped his head to the crook of her neck, his lips brushing her ear. He groaned hers when she whispered how much she wanted him.
When they came, it was together—quiet and trembling, a release that left them clinging to each other like lifelines.
After, Tool didn’t pull away. He laid beside her, one arm wrapped around her middle, his hand resting low on her belly like he couldn’t bear to let go. She tucked herself into his side, cheek against his chest, listening to the slowing beat of his heart.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Content.
But morning would come. And with it, questions.
For now, though, Brandi closed her eyes and let herself believe in this moment—in the weight of his arm around her, in the warmth of his skin against hers, in the peace that came with finally being where she belonged.
The early morning light hadn’t yet cracked the window when she stirred. Tool was still asleep, one arm draped over her waist, his breathing deep and steady.
She reached out, brushing her fingers over the ink on his forearm. Then lower, to his hand resting on her hip.
She could get used to this.
But whether it would last—that was a different story.
He shifted slightly, mumbling her name in his sleep.
Her throat tightened. Maybe this wasn’t just a night. Maybe it was a beginning. Or maybe it was the first lie they’d both tell themselves when morning came.