The smell of burnt rubber still lingered.
Even after we opened the windows.
Even after Jesse hosed down the floors.
The shop wasn't gone.
But it wasn't whole either.
Like Jesse.
---
We spent the week cleaning.
Clearing shelves. Repainting walls.
Evan dropped by with extra tools.
Neighbors offered old fans and crates of nails.
And through it all, Jesse let me help.
Not because he needed to—
But because he wanted to.
And for a man who once wouldn't let anyone touch his socket wrenches without permission?
That was intimacy.
---
On Friday, I showed up early.
Wearing nothing but cut-off shorts and a smug smile.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Jesse asked, trying not to look.
"Optimism."
He raised a brow.
"Optimism looks like your ass hanging out of denim."
I bent over the toolbox very slowly.
"You complaining?"
His growl was answer enough.
---
We didn't fuck in the garage that day.
We made love.
Right there, on the shop floor, behind the curtain Jesse usually kept drawn for privacy.
There was grease on his hands.
Paint on my neck.
And the kind of kisses that made me forget we were surrounded by half-assembled engines and the ghosts of past mistakes.
When he pushed inside me, slow and deep, the echo of my moan bounced off the walls he'd once built to keep everyone out.
Now?
He was letting me echo through him too.
---
After, we lay on an old blanket, sweat cooling in the breeze from a barely-working fan.
He stared at the ceiling. Then at me.
"You know," he said, "this place doesn't feel haunted anymore."
I traced the edge of his jaw.
"That's because you stopped being afraid of what you built."
He kissed me.
Soft.
Lingering.
And when he pulled back, he whispered,
"Let's finish rebuilding this place. And then let's build something else."
---
I blinked.
"Like what?"
His eyes glinted.
"You'll see."