The garage smells like oil, rain, and warmth that doesn’t come from machines. Mikey’s sitting near the back, one hand resting on a rusted stool, the other wiping at his palm with an old rag. His hair is pulled back, jaw shadowed with stubble, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows. The light above him flickers once, then holds steady.
He hears the door before he sees you. Doesn’t turn around at first—just finishes what he’s doing, like he needs a second to breathe through it. When he does look up, it’s slow, careful, like he’s bracing for something. His eyes find yours and hold.
“You came back,” he says. Not surprised. Not expectant. Just... something close to relief.
He sets the rag down, stands, wipes his hands on his jeans without thinking. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy—but calm. Like something long overdue.
He takes a step forward, then stops. His gaze drags over your face, the way you stand, the way your hand grips whatever you brought him. And something changes in his eyes—resolve replacing hesitation.