The smell hits me before I'm fully awake—coffee, bitter and sharp, cutting through the lingering musk of last night. I reach for Derek's warmth and find only sheets, still holding the faint shape of his body but already cool. The clock on the nightstand reads 7:42. I've never woken up in a bed that wasn't mine, in a room that didn't smell like Ethan's laundry detergent and my own restlessness.

I pad barefoot through his hallway, and the floorboards are rough under my soles, unpolished, real. The kitchen is empty, but there's a mug waiting for me—black, no sugar, the way I take it, which means he's been paying attention for longer than I want to think about. I wrap my hands around it and follow the sound of a radio humming somewhere beyond the back door.

The garage swallows me whole. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the concrete is cold against my bare feet, that slick, oil-stained surface I remember from the storage room. The air is thick with grease and hot metal, and there he is—Derek, wiping his hands on a red rag, his back to me. His shoulders move under the worn fabric of his shirt, and I watch the muscles shift, remembering exactly what those arms felt like wrapped around me.

He turns, and that crooked smile spreads slow across his face. "Morning, Maya."

Two words, and my body answers before my mind does—the dried cum between my thighs a secret I carry into the daylight, a claim he left in me that I haven't washed away. I feel it with every step, that phantom fullness, and I know he can see me feeling it. His eyes drop to my bare legs, then back up, and the smile sharpens.

"Coffee's good," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I meant it to.

He tosses the rag onto the workbench and gestures wide, taking in the lifts and the tool chests, the half-disassembled engine suspended in the air like a patient under surgery. "This is it. The whole kingdom." He's watching me, not the garage. "Told you I'd show you everything."

I step closer, the concrete cold under my feet, and I can feel the space around us—the high ceiling, the open bay door letting in pale morning light, the world that's his. I run my fingers along the edge of a tool chest, and the metal is cool and ridged. "It's bigger than I thought."

"Bigger than the storage room." His voice drops, and I feel it in my stomach. "But you knew that already."

I don't answer. I'm looking at his hands, the grease still caught in the lines of his knuckles, and I'm remembering those hands on me—in me—and the way he held my jaw when he told me to stay. He takes a step toward me, and I can smell him now, sweat and motor oil and something underneath that's just him, the scent I've been chasing since that bus.

Then a woman's voice cuts through the hum of the fluorescent lights, sharp and familiar in a way that makes my skin prickle. "Derek. You said you'd have the alternator done by—"

She stops in the doorway of the office, a woman maybe a few years older than me, dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, a clipboard in her hand. Her eyes land on me, barefoot in Derek's garage in a shirt that's clearly not mine, and something flickers across her face—too quick to name, but I catch the way her jaw tightens.

Derek's smile doesn't waver, but I feel his body go still beside me. "Mer. You're early."

Mer. The name from the edges of his story, the debt, the favor, the deal he made before I was ever on that bus. She looks at me, then at him, and I watch her read the whole thing in a single glance—the bare feet, the borrowed shirt, the way he's standing between me and the door like he's claiming ground.

"I'm always early," she says, and her voice is neutral in a way that feels deliberate. "This must be Maya."

She knows my name. I didn't tell her my name. I didn't even know she existed until last night, and she's standing in his doorway saying my name like it's a line item on a ledger. I feel Derek's hand find the small of my back, a warm pressure that says stay, and I don't know if he's staking a claim or telling me to be careful.

I lift my chin. "You've heard of me."

Mer's mouth curves, and it's not quite a smile. "I've heard a lot of things." She looks at Derek, and something passes between them—old, familiar, loaded. "The alternator's on the bench. I'll leave you to your... morning."

She turns and walks back into the office, and the door clicks shut behind her with a finality that feels like a warning. I look at Derek, and his jaw is tight now, the easy confidence gone from his eyes.

"She's early," he repeats, but it sounds different this time. He pulls me against him, his hand sliding into my hair, tilting my face up to his. "Don't worry about Mer. She's part of the old life."

I want to believe him. I want to melt into his chest and let the morning be just us, the garage and the coffee and the claim he left in me. But I can feel the shape of something else pressing against the edges of this—the debt, the favor, the deal—and I know it's not going to stay in the dark forever.

"What old life?" I ask, and the words hang in the air between us, heavy as the oil on his hands.

He's quiet for a long moment, and I watch the muscle in his jaw work. The garage hums around us—a compressor kicking on somewhere, the radio still murmuring country I don't recognize. His hand stays on my back, heavy and warm, and I can feel him deciding something.

"Before the garage, I ran with a crew out of Oakwood." His voice is low, stripped of the teasing edge. "Stolen parts, mostly. Boosted cars stripped down in a lot off Route 9. I was good at it because I was invisible—nobody looks at the kid wiping grease off his hands in the corner."

I don't move. The coffee's going cold in my hands, but I can't bring myself to set it down.

"Mer's brother ran the crew. Vince." He says the name like it costs him something. "He got popped two years ago. Took the fall for a job I'd helped set up. He never gave me up, not once, and he did eighteen months while I built this place legit."

The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, and I watch his eyes track something in the middle distance—not the garage, not me. Somewhere older.

"So the debt is hers to call in," I say. Not a question.

His hand tightens on my back. "She's never called it. Until now."

"What does she want?"

Derek's mouth pulls into something that isn't quite a smile. "She wants the garage. Wants me to sign over a quarter of it as collateral on a loan she's arranging—expansion money, she says. Clean money. But it's not clean, Maya. It's Vince's money, laundered through three shell companies, and if I take it, I'm back in."

I set the mug down on the workbench, the ceramic clinking against a wrench. "So that's the old life. It's not in the past at all."

"It never is." He steps closer, and I can smell him again—sweat, motor oil, that undertone that's just him. "But I told you I was done with it. I meant that."

"Did you?" The words come out sharper than I meant. "Because she knows my name, Derek. She walked in here and said my name like she'd been waiting to meet me."

His eyes flicker, and I catch it—the briefest crack in that lazy confidence. "She asked. I told her."

"You told her about me?"

"I told her I found something worth keeping." His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. "That's not the same as being back in."

I want to lean into his palm. I want to believe him. But I can still feel Mer's eyes on me, that neutral voice saying my name like a line item on a ledger.

"She's early," I say, echoing his words from before. "She's here now. What happens when she comes back out?"

Derek's thumb stops moving. "She doesn't come back out. She leaves through the office door, and I handle her before tonight."

"Handle her."

"Talk to her." His jaw tightens. "Tell her the answer's no."

The office door clicks open behind him, and I see it over his shoulder—Mer stepping out, clipboard still in hand, her eyes landing on us with that same unreadable flatness. She's not leaving. She's walking toward us, and Derek's hand drops from my face, and I feel the space between us change—something shifting, rearranging itself around her approach.

"Derek." Her voice is clipped, practical. "I need the keys to the tow truck. Alternator job's on Maple Street, and the owner's already called twice."

She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something floral and expensive, out of place in the grease and concrete. Her eyes flick to me, then back to him, and there's a beat of silence where I watch her read the tension in his shoulders.

"Keys are on the hook," he says. "You know where."

"I do." She doesn't move. "And the answer about the loan?"

Derek's hand finds mine, his fingers lacing through mine, rough and warm. "The answer's no."

Mer's expression doesn't change, but something in her posture does—a shift, a settling, like she's filing the information away for later. "Alright." She turns, and I watch her walk toward the office, her heels clicking on the concrete. At the door she pauses, looking back over her shoulder. "You know Vince gets out in three weeks. He'll want to hear it from you directly."

The door clicks shut behind her, and the garage feels suddenly quiet, the radio humming in the gap she left. Derek's hand is still in mine, and I can feel his pulse in his palm—steady, but faster than before.

"Three weeks," I say.

He looks down at me, and the crooked smile is back, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Plenty of time."

"For what?"

His thumb traces a circle on the back of my hand, and his voice drops low. "To figure out what I'm willing to lose."

The edge of the workbench bites into the backs of my thighs, cold metal through the thin cotton of his shirt. Derek's hands are on my waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh above my hips, and he steps between my legs like he owns the space there. The garage hums around us—compressor, radio, the distant tick of cooling metal—but all I can hear is the rough sound of his breathing.

"Three weeks is forever." His voice is a low rumble against my neck, his lips brushing the skin just below my ear. "I'll spend them the way I want."

His hand slides up my thigh, slow, deliberate, and I feel the calluses on his palm catch against my skin. I know what he's looking for before he finds it—the dried proof of last night, the claim he left in me that I haven't washed away. His thumb finds the tacky trail on my inner thigh, presses there, and I feel it like a brand, like he's checking it's still his.

"Still there," I breathe, and my voice comes out smaller than I meant it to.

His eyes darken. "I know. I can smell it on you."

My thighs tighten around his hips, and I feel him through his jeans—hard, already, the shape of him pressing against the heat between my legs. The workbench is cold under me, but I'm not cold anywhere else. His thumb keeps pressing, rubbing the dried cum into my skin like he's marking me again, and I feel my hips tilt toward him without my permission.

"You came out here barefoot," he says, and there's something in his voice that isn't teasing. "In my shirt. No panties. You walked through my garage like you belonged here."

"You told me to stay."

"I told you to stay in my bed." His hand leaves my thigh, slides up to grip my hip, and he pulls me to the very edge of the bench. "You came to find me."

I don't answer. I'm watching his mouth, the way his lips curve, the grease still caught in the lines of his knuckles where his hand grips my hip. I can feel the ghost of him inside me, that phantom fullness from last night, and I want him to make it real again.

"What happens in three weeks?" I ask, and the words come out rough.

His jaw tightens. "Vince gets out. He'll want his money, or his pound of flesh. Mer's already made her play." He leans in, his forehead almost touching mine. "But I told you I was done with that life. I meant it."

"And me?"

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. "You're not part of the old life, Maya. You're the reason I'm not going back to it."

I feel something crack open in my chest, something I don't have a name for. I lean into his palm, and for a moment the garage disappears—the grease, the fluorescent buzz, the ghost of Mer's perfume—and it's just us, his hand on my face, his body between my thighs, the smell of him in my nose.

Then his hand drops to my thigh again, and he's pushing the hem of his shirt up, baring me to the cold air. His eyes track down, and I watch his throat move as he swallows.

"You're wet," he says, and it's not a question.

I am. I've been wet since I woke up and found him gone, since I walked into this garage and saw his shoulders move under his shirt. I don't answer. I just spread my legs a little wider on the cold metal, and I watch his eyes darken.

His thumb finds me—not the dried proof of last night, but the wet heat of right now—and I gasp, my hips bucking against his hand. He presses, circles, and I feel the edge of his nail catch on my clit, and my fingers find the edge of the workbench and grip.

"I've been thinking about this," he says, his voice low, his eyes on his own hand moving between my thighs. "Since the bus. Since I watched you walk past my garage every day for two years. Since you sent me that photo in that skirt."

His thumb pushes inside me, and I feel my whole body clench around it. "Derek—"

"I know." He pushes deeper, and I feel the stretch, the slick sound of it. "I know."

The office door clicks open behind him.

I see it over his shoulder—Mer, standing in the doorway, clipboard still in her hand, her eyes landing on us with that same unreadable flatness. Derek's thumb freezes inside me, and I feel the moment stretch, the air between us all three of us going tight and thin.

"Keys, Derek. Now." Her voice is clipped, practical, like she's seen nothing, like she's interrupting nothing.

My legs are still wrapped around him. His thumb is still inside me. And I can smell his sweat, sharp and sudden, as he pulls back.

His hand leaves my thigh, and the absence is a cold shock against my skin. But I don't reach for him. I slide off the workbench, my bare feet finding the concrete, and I can feel Mer's eyes still on us even though she's gone. I walk past him, toward the bench where the alternator sits, and I can feel his gaze on my back, tracking every step.

The metal is cold under my fingers, ridged with fins and bolts, still faintly warm from whatever work he did before I woke up. I trace the curve of it, the weight of it, the patient engineering of it. "This is what she wanted the keys for."

He's behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him without touching. "That's the one."

"Show me." I turn to look at him over my shoulder. "Show me what you fixed."

He moves to stand beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, and I watch his hands find the alternator like they know it the way they know my body. His fingers trace the housing, the belt groove, the terminals. "Bad bearing. Squealing like a dying cat when it got warm. Owner thought she needed a whole new unit." He picks up a wrench from the bench, spins it once. "Just needed a new bearing and a clean-up. Cost him a hundred instead of four."

"You like this." It's not a question. I can hear it in his voice, the way it loses its teasing edge when he talks about the work.

"It's honest." He sets the wrench down, and his hand lands on the alternator next to mine, close but not touching. "You take something broken. You figure out what it needs. You fix it. No lies, no debts, no favors."

I look at his hand on the cold metal, the grease in his knuckles, the way his thumb rests against a bolt like it's a familiar weight. "And the garage?"

"The garage is mine. Bought with money I earned, not owed." He turns to face me, and I feel the space between us shrink. "It's the only thing I ever built that didn't owe anyone."

The words land somewhere in my chest, heavy and warm. I look at the alternator, at his hand so close to mine, and I think about everything he's told me — the crew, the debt, Mer, Vince. This is the thing he made that's clean. And he's showing it to me.

I slide my hand forward, my fingers brushing his, and I feel him go still. "Show me how it works."

He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Then he turns back to the alternator, and his hand covers mine, guiding my fingers to a bolt. "This is the voltage regulator. Keeps the charge steady, so the battery doesn't overfill. This here's the rotor — spins inside the stator, generates the current."

His voice is low, patient, and I can feel his breath on my neck as he leans in. "You've got good hands," he says. "Steady."

"I draw for a living."

"I know." His thumb traces the inside of my wrist, and I feel my pulse jump. "I've watched you draw. In the park, on Tuesdays. You hold your pencil like you're afraid it'll break."

I look down at our hands on the metal, his rough and scarred, mine smooth and clean. Two different worlds, meeting on a piece of machinery that keeps a car running.

"Show me the bearing," I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel.

His hand moves mine to the pulley, and I feel the slight give in it, the roughness he'd found and fixed. "This was the problem. Worn down, catching on the shaft. Ten minutes to swap, and it's good as new."

I run my finger over the smooth surface, and I think about how he saw something broken and knew exactly what it needed. How he's looking at me the same way.

His hands are still covering mine on the alternator, and I can feel the rough calluses against my skin, the warmth of his palms. The garage hums around us, the compressor kicking on somewhere, the radio still murmuring, but all I can hear is his breathing, slow and steady beside me.

"This is the only thing I ever built that didn't owe anyone," he says again, softer this time, and I feel the words settle into the space between us, heavy with everything he's not saying.

I turn my hand under his, lacing my fingers through his, and I feel his grip tighten. The alternator is cold under my other palm, but his hand is warm, and I can feel the pulse in his wrist, faster than before.

"Show me everything," I say, and I watch his eyes darken, the crooked smile returning to the corner of his mouth.

His hand leaves mine, but only to reach past me for a rag, wiping the grease from his fingers before he takes my hand again. "Everything's a lot."

"I've got time."

He looks at me, and I can see something shift in his face — not the cocky mechanic, not the predator from the bus, but something younger, almost unsure. "Yeah," he says, and his voice is rough. "I think you do."

His hand is still warm from the rag, the grease mostly gone but the roughness still there, and I don't let go. I turn to face him fully, my back against the workbench, the alternator cold and ridged against my spine through the thin cotton of his shirt.

"Mer's gone," I say, and I watch his eyes track the movement of my throat when I swallow. "The office door's closed. The keys are on the hook. She's not coming back out."

He doesn't move, but I feel the air change between us—that same shift from before, when his thumb was inside me and the world went thin and tight. "She could still hear."

"Let her."

The word hangs there, and I watch something flicker behind his eyes—surprise, maybe, or hunger, or both. I reach down and take his hand, the one that was between my thighs minutes ago, and I guide it back up my leg. His fingers find the hem of his shirt, and I feel them pause there, waiting.

"You said you'd spend the next three weeks the way you want." My voice comes out low, steady, and I feel his fingers tighten against my skin. "I'm telling you I want to be part of that."

His hand slides up, slow, deliberate, and I feel the calluses catch on the inside of my thigh. His thumb finds me—wet, still, from before—and I feel my hips tilt toward him without asking permission.

"I was in the middle of something," he says, and his voice is rough, stripped of the teasing edge. "You stopped me."

"I'm un-stopping you."

His thumb circles, presses, and I feel the edge of his nail catch on my clit, and my hand flies to his wrist, gripping, holding him there. "Derek—"

"I know." He pushes a finger inside me, and I feel the stretch, the slick heat of it, the way my body clenches around him like it's been waiting. "I know."

He works me open, slow, one finger then two, and I feel the cold metal of the workbench against my back, the ridged edge of the alternator digging into my spine. I don't care. I can feel his breath on my neck, hot and uneven, and I can smell him—sweat and motor oil and that undertone that's just him, the scent I've been chasing since that bus.

"I thought about this," he says, his voice low, his fingers curling inside me. "Watching you walk through my garage this morning, barefoot, in my shirt, no panties. I thought about bending you over this bench and—"

"Then do it."

His eyes darken, and I feel his fingers leave me, cold and sudden. He steps back just enough to undo his jeans, and I watch him push them down, his cock springing free, hard and thick and already slick at the tip. He steps between my legs, and I feel the heat of him against my thigh, the weight of him, and I spread my legs wider on the cold metal.

"Look at me," he says, and I do. His eyes are dark, focused, and I feel his hand on my hip, pulling me to the edge of the bench. "You came out here to find me. You made me show you my work. You put your hand on mine and asked me to teach you." He pushes the head of his cock against me, not inside, just pressing, teasing, and I feel my whole body ache for it. "Tell me what you want."

I reach down and take him in my hand, feel the heat of him, the pulse, the weight. I guide him to my entrance, and I feel the pressure, the stretch, the beginning of him. "I want you to finish what you started."

He pushes inside me, slow, inch by inch, and I feel myself open around him, the fullness I've been chasing since I woke up alone in his bed. My head falls back against the alternator, and I feel the cold metal against my scalp, the ridged fins pressing into my skull, and I don't care. He's inside me, all the way, and I feel him pause there, letting me adjust, letting me feel every inch of him.

"Three weeks," he says, his voice rough, his forehead against mine. "I'll spend them the way I want."

He pulls out almost all the way, then pushes back in, slow, deep, and I feel the workbench shift under me, the tools rattling in their drawers. His hand finds my hip, grips it, and I feel his thumb press into the bruise he left on the bus, the one that's still fading yellow-green on my skin.

"Mine," he says, and the word is a claim, a brand, and I feel it in my chest as much as between my thighs.

He fucks me against the workbench, slow and deep, and I can hear the wet sound of it, the slap of his hips against mine, the radio still murmuring country I don't recognize. The office door stays closed, and I can feel Mer's perfume still hanging in the air, a ghost at the edge of the garage, but I don't care. I can feel the shape of him inside me, the stretch, the heat, and I can feel the dried proof of last night still on my thighs, mixing with the wet of right now.

"You're mine," he says again, and his hand slides up to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder. "Say it."

"I'm yours."

He pushes deeper, and I feel the edge of the workbench bite into my back, the alternator digging into my spine, and I don't care. I can feel him everywhere—his hand on my throat, his hips against mine, his cock inside me, filling me, claiming me. The garage hums around us, the compressor kicking on somewhere, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and I can feel the heat building in my belly, low and urgent.

"Derek—"

"I know." His voice is rough, his breath hot against my ear. "I can feel you. You're close."

His thumb finds my clit, circles, presses, and I feel myself clench around him, the orgasm building, rising, and I can feel his hand tighten on my throat, just enough, and I come undone.

I feel myself clench around him, wave after wave, and I feel him follow, his hips slamming into mine, his cock pulsing inside me, filling me again. He stays there, buried deep, and I feel his forehead drop to my shoulder, his breath ragged against my skin.

The office door stays closed.

I feel his cum leaking out of me, mixing with last night's, and I feel his hand leave my throat, slide down to my hip, grip it. He pulls out slowly, and I feel the emptiness, the ache, the proof of him still inside me.

He looks at me, and the crooked smile is back, but it's softer now, almost tender. "I think you do," he says, echoing his words from before. "I think you've got time."

I slide off the workbench, his cum still warm between my thighs, and I don't bother wiping it away. The concrete is cool under my bare feet as I turn to face him fully, his shirt hanging loose on my shoulders, the hem brushing my knees.

"You said you'd spend three weeks the way you want." I reach out, my fingers finding the top button of his jeans, still undone. "But I want to know what that costs you."

His hand covers mine, stilling it. "What do you mean?"

"Mer. She knows my name. She's seen us together." I hold his gaze, watching the lazy confidence flicker. "She called in a debt for Vince. You refused her. What does that cost you?"

He's quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing the inside of my wrist. "She's got leverage. Vince's fall, eighteen months ago—the insurance company never paid out. She's been carrying that note, waiting for the right moment to call it in."

"And you told her no."

"I told her no." He pulls me closer, his hands settling on my hips, his thumbs pressing into the fading bruise. "She knows about you. She could make trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"The kind that comes with cameras and cops." His voice is low, flat, stripped of the teasing edge. "She could walk into the station and say she saw a girl leave my garage at 2 AM, and I was seen on that bus, and suddenly the pieces fit."

I feel the cold crawl up my spine, but I don't step back. "Would she?"

"She wants her money. She wants Vince's debt settled." He shrugs, but I feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightens on my hips. "I told her I'd burn the garage before I'd let her use you."

The words land hard in my chest. I search his face for the lie, the easy deflection I've come to expect from him, but his eyes are steady, dark, watching me with that focused intensity that makes me feel like the only thing in the room.

"You'd give up everything," I say slowly. "For me."

"I've been watching you for two years, Maya." His voice is rough, almost raw. "I planned that bus. I risked everything to have you once. You think I'd let Mer take you away now?"

I feel the weight of it, the enormity of what he's saying. He's not just a mechanic with a crooked smile. He's a man who's been waiting, calculating, building toward this moment—and I'm standing in the middle of it, wearing his shirt, his cum still inside me.

"What if she does it anyway?" I ask. "What if she goes to the cops regardless?"

"Then I deal with it." He says it simply, like it's a fact, like he's already made his peace with the cost. "Vince gets out in three weeks. He'll want his debt settled. Mer will push. But I've got something she wants more than money."

"What?"

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "The garage. The whole property. Vance Auto's been in my family for forty years. Mer's been trying to get her hands on it since Vince went in. She knows I'd burn it to the ground before I'd let her have it—but she also knows I won't, because it's the only leverage I've got."

I feel the pieces click together, the shape of the trap he's been circling. "You'd lose the garage before you'd lose me."

His hand comes up, cups my jaw, tilts my face toward his. "I'd lose the garage before I lose you."

The words hang between us, heavy and raw, and I feel them settle into my bones. He's not just claiming me. He's staking everything on me. And for the first time since that bus, I feel something shift inside me—not guilt, not fear, but something sharper, more dangerous.

I want to be worth it.

I feel the words leave my mouth before I've fully thought them through, but once they're out, they settle into something solid, something certain. "I can get you the money. Mer's debt, whatever she's holding over you—I'll pay it."

His hands still on my hips, and I watch the lazy confidence flicker into something sharper, more guarded. "Maya—"

"I'm serious." I step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through his shirt, the one he's wearing that's still half-undone. "Ethan has savings. I have an account, some money from freelance work. I can sell my drawings. I can call him, tell him it's over, ask for what's mine."

He's watching me now with that focused intensity, the one that makes me feel like I'm the only thing in the room. "You'd go back to him?"

"I'd go back long enough to get what I need. Not for him. For us." The word feels strange on my tongue, heavy with meaning I haven't fully earned yet. "You said you'd burn the garage before you'd let her use me. I'm saying you don't have to."

His jaw tightens, and I see the flicker of something raw cross his face before he schools it away. "That's not—"

"What? Not your plan?" I reach up, my fingers finding the collar of his shirt, the same way he's touched me a hundred times. "You've been watching me for two years. You planned that bus. You risked everything to have me once. You think I can't plan something too?"

He's quiet for a long moment, and I feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightens on my hips like he's afraid I'll slip away. "Mer wants a quarter of the garage. She's not going to take cash and walk away."

"Then we give her something else." I feel the idea crystallize as I say it, sharp and dangerous. "You said Vince gets out in three weeks. You said she's been carrying that note, waiting for the right moment. What if we give her the moment she thinks she wants—and then take it away?"

His eyes narrow. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we play her game. Let her think she's winning. Let her think you're desperate, that you'll do anything to keep the garage." I hold his gaze, feeling the pulse of the plan thrumming through me. "And then we show her what desperate actually looks like."

He's silent, and I can feel the shift in the air between us—the way his breathing changes, the way his hands relax slightly on my hips. "You've got a dark streak, Maya Chen."

"You've been watching me for two years. You should know that by now."

His mouth curves into that crooked smile, but it's different now—slower, more deliberate, like he's seeing me for the first time. "And what do you want in return?"

"Nothing." I feel the word land between us, honest and raw. "I just want you to stop owing her. I want to know that when we're together, there's nothing hanging over us. No debt. No leverage. No Mer."

He cups my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, and I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. "You don't owe me that."

"I know." I feel the words settle into me, quiet and sure. "But I want to give it to you anyway."

His eyes search mine, and for a moment I see something flicker there—something vulnerable, almost fragile, like a crack in the armor he's been wearing since the bus. Then it's gone, smoothed over by that lazy confidence I've come to know.

"Alright," he says, his voice low. "We do it your way. But if this goes sideways—"

"It won't." I feel the certainty in my chest, hard and bright. "I've been watching you too, Derek. I know what you're capable of. And I'm not afraid of Mer."

He pulls me closer, his forehead dropping to mine, and I feel his breath warm against my lips. "You should be."

"Maybe." I reach up, my fingers finding the back of his neck, feeling the heat of his skin. "But I'm not."

The office door stays closed, but I feel Mer's presence like a ghost at the edges of the garage, waiting. I don't care. I've made my choice, and it's standing in front of me, his hands on my hips, his scent in my lungs.

He's watching me with that focused intensity, and I know he's already decided something—something he hasn't told me yet. But for now, I let it rest. For now, I just stand here, his cum still warm between my thighs, my future burning bright in my chest.