Chapter 25 Adaline
Adaline
The second I step inside, the first thing that hits me isn’t oil or rubber or the sharp tang of metal. It’s… buttered popcorn.
I blink like that’s somehow going to make it less ridiculous, but the smell is real, salty, and layered beneath the familiar garage scent like a secret comfort someone tucked into the air on purpose.
The smell settles something tight in my chest, unexpected and oddly reassuring.
My eyes flick toward the counter, half-expecting an actual popcorn machine.
Instead, there’s an old microwave, a dented soda fridge humming in the corner, and a bowl of something wrapped in foil sitting beside a register that looks like it survived the last century.
A radio crackles softly from somewhere behind the counter, local station, slightly fuzzy, playing a slow country song that feels like it belongs to a summer evening and a porch swing. It makes the whole place feel… human.
Hunter steps in beside me, and the sound of the door closing behind us seems to shift the world. The shop isn’t loud, but it has a different kind of noise, small clinks, the low whir of a fan, a distant compressor kicking on and off.
And Hunter…
Hunter looks like he belongs here in a way he doesn’t belong anywhere else.
His shoulders are still broad, his posture still controlled, but the rigid edge to him softens as he takes in the space. It’s subtle, just a fraction.
We’re barely three steps in when an older gentleman appears with a rag in his hand, wiping grease from his fingers as he rounds the counter.
He’s older, gray threaded through his beard, laugh lines carved deep around his mouth, but his eyes are bright and sharp, the kind of eyes that have seen a lot and still choose warmth.
His gaze lands on Hunter, and something in his expression shifts—softens, brightens, becomes unmistakably fond. Hunter’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But close enough that my chest tightens.
He gives Hunter a quick warm hug and a pat on his back. Aunt Jane and Hunter always talk to each other affectionately. But seeing this old man hug Hunter warms my heart.
I introduce myself, offering a polite smile.
Mr. Reeves’s eyebrows lift, as if he’s heard it recently in a town where names travel faster than weather. His gaze flicks back to Hunter for a half-second—measuring.
Then he smiles at me, friendly. “Nice to meet you, sweetheart.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
He accuses Hunter for not turning up earlier. Hunter moves like he has been here many times. He doesn’t bump into anything. Doesn’t hesitate.
We walk deeper into the shop, and it feels like stepping into a place where time doesn’t rush.
Tool chests line the walls. Posters of old cars hang crookedly, classic Mustangs, a Corvette, something with flames painted down the side that feels aggressively nineties.
As they look at the car parts, I wander off.
There’s a bulletin board near the back with snapshots of customers, families, kids holding fish, men standing proudly beside cars they rebuilt.
There’s history here. Not the kind written in headlines.
The kind that lives in grease under fingernails and hands that know how to build.
My eyes drift, drawn to the framed photo on the wall near the bulletin board.
I step closer without thinking.
The frame is slightly dusty. The picture inside looks old enough to have been developed in a drugstore.
A teenage boy stands with his arm slung around Mr. Reeves’s shoulders.
That boy is Hunter.
He’s leaner. Younger. His hair is longer, messy, falling into his eyes. There’s grease smeared across his cheek like someone swiped it there with a careless hand. His grin is wide and unguarded in a way I can’t reconcile with the man I know.
There’s light in his face, a kind of reckless joy. His other hand holds a wrench like it’s a trophy.
I feel something tug inside my chest, soft and aching, like I’ve found a missing page to a story I didn’t realize I was reading.
I look at Hunter and slowly walk towards them.
“Is that…” My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to.
Mr. Reeves looks over, and his face brightens instantly.
“That?” he says like I just pointed at a masterpiece in a museum. “That’s Hunter when he was still a pain in my neck.”
Hunter’s shoulders tense. I glance at him.
His jaw is tight, eyes flicking toward the photo like it’s a threat.
Mr. Reeves keeps going, unfazed. “Every afternoon after school, this kid would show up like clockwork. Backpack tossed in the corner. Hands already itching to take something apart.”
Hunter mutters, “You make it sound like I was an infestation.”
“You were,” Mr. Reeves says cheerfully. “But a useful one.”
I can’t help it. A laugh slips out. Hunter shoots me a look that should make me stop.
Instead, it makes my smile widen.
Mr. Reeves leans against the shelf, nostalgia shining in his eyes. “He loved cars. Not just driving them. Fixing them. Understanding them. Like if he could get the engine to behave, maybe the rest of the world would too.”
Hunter’s gaze snaps to Mr. Reeves—warning.
But Mr. Reeves doesn’t look afraid of him. Not even a little.
“He was curious,” Mr. Reeves continues, voice softer now. “Determined. Smart as hell. He’d watch me do something once, then come back the next day and do it better.”
“Did you teach him everything?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Mr. Reeves snorts again. “I taught him the basics. He taught himself the rest.”
Then his expression shifts into something proud. “Kid had a gift. Still does.”
Hunter’s throat works as if he’s about to speak. He doesn’t.
He just turns away toward the counter and opens the boxes, like he’s suddenly busy.
Mr. Reeves watches him for a second, and something passes between them. An old, quiet understanding that doesn’t need words.
Then Mr. Reeves clears his throat, changing the energy like flipping a switch.
“Anyway,” he says briskly, reaching for a clipboard. “Let’s talk alternators and belts and all that fun stuff. You installing it tonight or tomorrow?”
Hunter releases a breath, almost imperceptible, like he’s relieved the topic moved.
“Tonight,” he says.
Mr. Reeves nods, launching into details, part numbers, compatibility, and what to watch for when he swaps it out.
I listen, but my mind keeps circling back to the photo.
Teenage Hunter. Smiling, happy, and carefree.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding that question in my chest until it softens—settles into something quieter, more tender.
Who loved him back then?
I walk back and place the photo back with the rest of the memories in the shop.
Mr. Reeves hands Hunter a few boxes. I step forward automatically. “I can help.”
Hunter starts to say no, his reflex. But then his gaze flicks to me, and he pauses like he’s learning new patterns.
“Fine,” he says, gruffly, and hands me a smaller one.
We carry the boxes together out to the truck, our shoulders brushing once as we maneuver through the doorway, the shared weight nudging our steps into something easy without either of us thinking about it.
The sun is brighter outside, crisp in the aftermath of last night’s storm. The air smells clean.
At the truck, Hunter sets the boxes down in the bed, and I brush my palms on my jeans.
Mr. Reeves follows us out and leans on the doorframe, squinting into the light.
“Bring her car in once you’re done,” he calls to Hunter. “I wanna check your work.”
Hunter rolls his eyes. “You don’t trust me?”
Mr. Reeves smirks. “I trust you. I don’t trust whatever shortcuts you take when you’re annoyed.”
Hunter huffs a reluctant laugh, an actual laugh, barely there, but real. I freeze for half a second at the sound. It shouldn’t be such a big deal.
But it is.
Because it makes him feel like a man again.
Mr. Reeves looks at me. “And you, sweetheart, make sure he actually brings it. He forgets sometimes.”
Hunter mutters, “I don’t forget.”
Mr. Reeves ignores him. “Nice meeting you, Adaline.”
“Nice meeting you too,” I say, and I mean it.
As we climb into the truck, something settles in my chest, light, unfamiliar.
Like I was allowed to witness a part of Hunter that the rest of the world never earned.
The drive back toward the mansion feels quieter.
Not because nothing is happening.
Because something has shifted.
The sky stays clear, a sharp blue that makes me feel peaceful.
Hunter drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His bruised knuckles are still visible, and my chest pinches again at the reminder of last night.
I should feel nervous.
I should feel awkward sitting alone with him after everything. Instead, I feel lighter—like somewhere between last night and this quiet drive, he stopped feeling like someone I had to brace against and became someone I could lean into.
Being at the repair shop, being out of the mansion, in a place where he was known and treated like he belonged, it loosens something in me I didn’t realize was wound too tight.
And for the first time since breaking the engagement with Connor, I’m not scanning the road for his car. Not bracing for a voice behind me.
I’m just… here.
And maybe that’s the most dangerous part.
Because being present means feeling. And feeling means noticing Hunter in a way I don’t want to.
I glance at Hunter, quick, careful. He’s focused on the road, jaw set, eyes sharp. Still grumpy and guarded. But not as untouchable as he was before.
Last night cracked something open. This morning… widened it.
And now, sitting in his truck with sunlight spilling across the dashboard, I feel the strangest, most terrifying thought settle in my chest.
Maybe I can finally stop running. Maybe I can finally breathe.
And the fact that he’s the one making me feel that way?
That’s the part that scares me most.
The silence stretches as the truck hums along the narrow road back toward the mansion.
It’s not uncomfortable. Not exactly.