Chapter 24
Marcy
The garage hums the way it always does in the mornings—radio low, tools clinking, the faint bitter edge of coffee hanging over everything. Outside, snow piles in ridges where the plow finally carved a path, but here it’s warm. Familiar.
I’m sorting intake slips at the counter, trying to focus, when Ravi’s voice cuts through the space.
“You ever throw a punch before?”
I jerk, the paper slipping from my fingers.
He’s perched on a rolling stool, one foot propped on the lowest rung, the other splayed wide for balance.
His arms fold across his chest, and the left corner of his mouth hitches up, revealing the edge of a canine tooth—that same expression he wore yesterday before convincing Wes to race across the icy parking lot.
Ravi hasn’t been around the garage as much.
Most of his time has been spent at his parents' restaurant filling in for his very pregnant sister. But the last couple of days he’s been in the shop helping with the after storm rush.
“What?” I ask, caught between a laugh and a frown.
“A punch.” He makes a slow-motion fist and swings it through the air. “Pow.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because you,” he says, straightening to full height, “look like someone who’s been ducking shadows for way too long. Which, by the way, smart move. But…” He tilts his head, his grin softening. “Wouldn’t it feel better to have some tools? A way to push back if you ever needed to?”
My heart pounds faster. Fear tangles with something else—curiosity, maybe.
“Ravi…”
He lifts his hands, palms out. “No pressure. You don’t have to turn into some action hero. Just—if you want to learn a few basics, I can help.”
I hesitate. The knot in my stomach twists, but the way he says it—light, easy, like he’s offering poker lessons—takes the sting out of the fear.
“…what kind of basics?” I ask.
His grin lights up the whole corner of the garage. “That’s my girl. C’mon.”
He clears a space near the back wall, dragging a stool aside with a dramatic flourish. “Lesson one: stance. This isn’t about fighting. It’s about not looking like a target.”
I step where he points, my skin prickling.
Metal clangs against metal as Becket drops a wrench in the bay.
Joon’s radio crackles with static between songs.
The smell of motor oil hangs thick in the air, mingling with coffee from the pot that’s been brewing since six.
When I shift my weight, my boot squeaks against the concrete floor—too loud.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Landon’s reflection in the polished chrome of a nearby fender.
His hands have stilled on the carburetor, grease-stained fingers frozen mid-adjustment.
“Feet shoulder-width,” Ravi says, sliding into place opposite me. “One a little back. Knees soft. Hands up—not fists. Just ready.”
I copy him, clumsy.
He squints. “Hmm. You look like you’re waiting for the school bus.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I told you I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Exactly why I’m here.” He nudges my elbow up with two fingers. “There. Better. Shoulders square. Chin down. Own the space.”
I shift, finding my balance. This time it feels different. Stronger.
“Perfect,” Ravi says solemnly. “Terrifying. I’d run.”
A sound escapes my throat—half-snort, half-giggle—that I barely recognize as mine. My hand flies to my mouth, but Ravi’s grin only widens.
“Now, if I grab your wrist like this—” His fingers circle my forearm, warm and firm but not tight. “Don’t pull back. That’s instinct. Instead—” He demonstrates a twisting motion. When I try it, my elbow knocks against his shoulder, and I nearly trip over my own feet.
“Sorry,” I mumble, steadying myself against the workbench.
“For what? First try.” He repositions my stance with a light touch at my elbow. “Plant your heel. There. If someone bigger tries to drag you—” He mimes pulling me forward. “Drop your weight. Like sitting in an invisible chair.”
I try again, and this time I stay grounded.
“Good—except maybe don’t pet my arm while you’re escaping.”
“Pet?” I repeat, half-laughing, half-mortified.
“Yeah, you did this little—” He runs a hand down his arm like he’s smoothing fabric. “Cute, but not intimidating.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling too.
“Not bad,” he says after a few tries. “You’re picking this up faster than my sister did.”
“You taught your sisters?”
“Ha! No. My parents stuck me in classes when we first moved here. Thought I should learn to ‘stand my ground.’ Translation: learn to protect my sisters. Actual translation: learn how to survive them. They kicked my ass daily.”
I snort, covering my mouth.
“It’s true,” he insists. “Middle sister—she’s the one having a baby now—she hit harder than anyone in my weight class. And my oldest? She’d tackle me into the couch like she was training for the NFL. Competitions were a cakewalk compared to surviving my house.”
The image of tiny Ravi being tackled by his sisters makes something bubble up from my chest—a laugh that rings against the metal tools hanging on the wall.
Ravi’s eyes crinkle. “Music to my ears.”
He steps closer, shoulders squared. “If someone gets in your space—” His body looms over mine, not touching but close enough I can smell his cinnamon gum. “Plant your palm here—” he taps his own sternum, “—and push hard.”
I try it, my hand hovering an inch from his chest.
“Commit,” he says. “And don’t forget—noise is a weapon. Yell, scream, sing the alphabet if you have to. Doesn’t matter if you sound crazy. Crazy beats cornered.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know if I can.”
He sobers instantly. “That’s okay. You don’t have to today. You’ll get there. We’ll work on it.”
I nod, swallowing hard. Something in me unclenches—not because I feel brave, but because he isn’t asking me to be.
By the time we finish, my hair sticks to my temples and my sweater clings damply between my shoulder blades. My forearms shake when I lower them.
“Lesson one complete,” Ravi declares, bending at the waist in an exaggerated bow. “I think you might have even left a bruise, so I’d call that a success.”
“Pretty sure you were never in danger,” I say, flexing my fingers to work out the stiffness.
“You’d be surprised.” He nods toward my hands. “Those could do some real damage now. Tiny but mighty.”
I roll my eyes, but catch myself standing straighter, shoulders back, claiming just a little more space than before.
I turn for my water bottle on the counter and freeze. Landon’s eyes are on me, his hands still, the oil-stained rag dangling from his fingers. The carburetor sits forgotten.
His expression holds no pity or worry. Just something steady. Pride.
He gives me a single, deliberate nod.
Something loosens in my chest at the gesture. Approval. Belief.
As I step behind the counter I notice the tiniest change. For once I feel a flicker of control. Small. Fragile. But undeniably real.