Carter
Chapter twenty-one
The drive back is different from the ride out. The silence isn't thick with the tension of what might happen; it’s heavy with the reality of what already has. Dominic drives with a focused precision, eyes fixed on the road as if he can outpace the conversation waiting for us in the quiet.
We pull into the parking lot of SHIFT.
I’m already reaching for the door handle when I realize Dominic is out of the car and rounding the hood before I can even unbuckle. He doesn't wait. He just opens my door and walks me toward the entrance like it’s a foregone conclusion.
The bell above the door gives its familiar, tinny chime. Margaret is behind the counter, mid-wipe on a ketchup bottle. She looks up, her face lighting up the second she sees me.
"Carter! I thought you were off tonight, honey. Did you forget your—"
Her words die in her throat. Her gaze shifts three inches to my left, landing on the tall, dark-clad silhouette looming beside me.
Margaret’s eyes go wide, performing a slow, exaggerated blink as she processes the person attached to my side.
Then, it happens—that slow, knowing smirk begins at the corners of her mouth and spreads upward across her face like a rising tide.
"Is our order ready?" Dominic asks.
The sound of his voice—low, impatient, and very much there—makes Margaret’s smirk twitch with renewed intensity. She doesn't even look at him; she keeps her eyes locked on mine, her head tilting just a fraction as if to ask, Since when?
Dominic clears his throat, impatient.
"I—yes. Let me just..." She spins around, doing a little uncoordinated hustle toward the kitchen. "Gary! Order for... for Carter!" She puts a ridiculous amount of emphasis on my name.
The kitchen door bursts open and Gary stumbles out, one large bag of takeout precariously balanced in his arms. "Yeah, yeah, keep your hair on, Marge, I’m coming—"
Gary stops dead. He looks at the bag, then at Dominic, and then his gaze lands on me.
His grip falters, and the bag slips, sliding through his fingers.
He fumbles it against his chest, performing a frantic, limb-flailing save that ends with him clutching the burgers like a football.
As he rights himself, he catches my eye and his expression morphs into that same, insufferable grin as Margaret.
"Oh," Gary manages, his voice an octave higher than usual as he stares at who is beside me standing at the counter. "Here. Right here. Sir. We didn't know Carter was... bringing company."
Dominic doesn't bother with the pleasantries. He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a few bills, and drops them onto the counter. I catch a glimpse of the top note and realize he’s just paid enough to cover the meal three times over.
"Keep the change," Dominic mutters, his fingers already finding the small of my back to guide me away.
"Hey, Carter!" Margaret calls out, her voice loud enough to rattle the pie case. "How’s Landon doing? Don’t forget to mention the Friday special?"
I feel Dominic’s hand go rigid against my spine at the mention of my dad.
"He's good, Margaret! Goodnight!" I call out, trying to inject as much 'shut up' as possible into the words.
I glance back one last time as the door begins to swing shut.
Margaret is leaning over the counter, clutching her cheeks with a delighted, silent 'O' shape, while Gary—thinking he’s being a master of subtlety—is leaning against the coffee machine, miming a frantic steering wheel motion and winking so hard his whole face moves.
I roll my eyes at them, a small huff escaping me as the bell chimes one last time.
Dominic’s palm is a heavy, warm weight against my back, a silent claim that propels me forward.
The SHIFT sign flickers over us, and I can still feel Gary and Margaret's stares burning through the front window all the way to the car.
The drive the rest of the way is a blur of dark asphalt and more quiet.
Dominic turns down the familiar drive tucked behind a wall of overgrown hedges on the edge of the Valerio estate.
The headlights sweep over the private garage—a space that usually feels familiar, but tonight, it feels like a pressure cooker.
He kills the engine and the silence rushes in, amplified by the ticking of the cooling metal. He doesn't move to get out immediately. He just stares through the windshield, his hands still draped over the wheel, his knuckles firm even though we’ve stopped moving.
"I have some things I need to finish tonight," he says, his voice low and raspy, cutting clean through the silence.
He’s out of the car before I can argue, the door thudding shut with a finality that leaves me sitting in the dark for a beat. I don't stay there. I grab the bag and follow him inside.
The garage is a cathedral of high-end machinery and old-world grit.
While the walls are lined with engines his team tinkers with to test out new things, the center of the room is pure F1—spare wings, racks of specialized tires, and the diagnostic monitors that he’s probably spent more hours staring at than his own reflection.
Dominic is already across the floor, moving with a restless, prowling energy.
He sheds his jacket in one fluid motion, tossing it over a stack of tire warmers without looking.
He just rolls his sleeves up, exposing the corded muscle of his forearms, and leans over a workbench in the corner.
He begins to tear down a perfectly functional part with a focus that’s far too sharp to be about maintenance.
The sound of metal on metal—the rhythmic clink-slide of his tools—is the only thing filling the space. It’s an aggressive, restless sound, like he’s trying to punish the parts for existing.
"Dominic," I say softly.
The clink of the wrench stalls. His hand hovers for a fraction of a second before the motion resumes, faster than before.
"Can we talk about today?"
He doesn’t look up. Instead, he drops the wrench and stalks over, his body looming over me. Without a word, he reaches into the bag, his fingers pulling out a burger. He unwraps the paper halfway with that same methodical, slow peeling, then shoves it back into my hand.
"Eat, Shortcut. It’s been a long day. You need food," he mutters, already turning back to the bench before I can even blink.
I stare at the burger, my frustration bubbling up until it hits a boiling point. I don't eat. I march into his space, the item still clutched in my hand like a blunt instrument. I stop right at his elbow, forcing him to acknowledge me.
"How long have you known?" I demand.
He doesn't answer right away. He doesn't even stop working. Then, his fingers find the skin of my wrist, his grip light but grounding, and he gently tilts the burger in my hand upward. He leans down, taking a deliberate, slow bite of my food while holding my gaze. He chews unhurriedly, the silence stretching between us until it feels provocative, a blatant attempt to distract me with the proximity of his mouth to my fingers. It’s a challenge—a silent dare to see if I’ll flush or look away.
"Who all knows?" I push, refusing to let the deflection work. "Your mom said you and Luka visit weekly, so Luka has to know. Does your dad? Anyone else?"
His hand pauses, his focus narrowing. "Just my family," he says, his voice flat. "And Marco."
"Does my dad know?"
He swallows, his gaze finally breaking from mine to flicker down to the burger, then back up. Something tightens briefly across his face—a flash of disappointed annoyance, like he’s actually irritated I didn’t take the bait.
“You need to eat,” he says, the expression barely there and edged with reluctant regret before he turns back to his work.
I toss the burger onto the workbench, the wrapper crinkling as it slides across the metal. "Why are you being like this? So fucking stubborn. You show me this side of you today—you take me there, you trust me with it—and then you don't expect me to ask questions?"
He snaps. He turns so fast I almost stumble back, but he’s already there, his frame caging me against the edge of the bench. "Trust you?" he sneers, the words rough-edged and venomous. "Maybe I was just giving you an out before—"
"Before what?" I demand, my eyes bouncing side to side, tracking the storm in his. "Before the 'warranty' expires? Before I see the 'real' Dominic Valerio?"
He stays silent, but I see it—a brief, frantic flicker in his eyes like he’s actually weighing the risk of telling me his truth. For a heartbeat, the air between us is thin, and he looks like someone on the edge of a cliff, wondering if I’m someone who would catch him or just watch him fall.
Then, the shutters slam closed. His gaze turns flat and impenetrable, the moment of honesty curdling into something sharp as he realizes he’s shown too much.
He lets out a sharp, cynical exhale and smirks—that snarky, arrogant armor sliding back into place. "Doesn't matter."
"It does matter," I snap, my voice cracking with the weight of it. "It matters to me."
"Why?" he challenges, leaning in until our foreheads almost touch. "Why does it matter so much to you, Carter?"
The question catches me in the throat. I search for an answer—some empty, safe reason—but my brain comes up empty, replaced only by the frantic beat of my pulse.
I want to tell him it’s just the stakes of the job for the safety of the team, but that’s a lie I can’t even force out.
It’s the way my stomach dropped when I saw that wheelchair in the sunlight.
It’s the fierce, unbearable need to know he’s going to be okay, even though none of this is supposed to matter to me. He isn’t supposed to matter to me.
I want to reach out and catch his hand, to thread my fingers through his just to prove they’re still steady, even if mine aren't. I don’t have a name for the feeling in my chest—for the way the world seems to narrow down until he’s the only thing left in focus—and I’m terrified of what it means that I’m even looking for one.