By the time Carmen had gone inside, Elena was alone again—just her, the open bay, and the sound of her own breath.
She wiped the remaining grease from her fingers and leaned against the workbench, the pressure in her chest settling in like weight she couldn't shake.
The urge to reach for her phone had been pressing in all morning. It wasn't about missing him—not really. It was about needing something finished. Clean. Labeled. Done.
She pulled her phone from her pocket, thumb hovering over the screen.
No new messages.
Of course not.
Her fingers moved slowly, deliberate—like each tap might rewind the last twenty-four hours if she got the tone just right.
"Last night was a mistake."
She stared at the words. Thought about erasing them. Thought about saying more. But she didn't. Because anything more would sound like wanting.
She hit send.
The message delivered with a soft ping. Final.
Simple.
And yet, as the text left her screen, Elena couldn't help but feel like something bigger had left with it. Something she couldn't name.
She locked the phone and slid it back into her pocket.
Then she went back to work.
Like it meant nothing at all.
It came in less than ten minutes.
She wasn't even looking at her phone when it buzzed—just felt the vibration through her thigh like it knew how to find her in spite of everything.
Elena didn't move at first.
She finished tightening a bolt. Checked it twice. Set the wrench down slowly. Then—finally—she pulled her phone from her pocket.
1 new message
But she new exactly who it was.
She opened it.
"no you're not."
It wasn't smug or taunting.
It was worse—completely unshaken.
She felt it settle low in her chest, that warm, rising thing she kept trying to name as regret.
But it wasn't that. Not really.
It was want.
It was knowing.
And she hated him a little for it. This was exactly the thing she couldn't afford—him getting under her skin with three words and no effort. Like he was already one step ahead, just waiting for her to fold.
She wouldn't.
Her fingers moved fast. No pause this time.
"yes, I am. It shouldn't have happened. And it's not going to happen again."
She hit send.
No second-guessing. No softening.
Then she locked the phone. Set it face down on the bench beside her.
But everything in her chest was still buzzing.
Because even as she pushed him away—she couldn't stop waiting for him to push back.
She waited. Pretended she wasn't. Picked up her wrench, adjusted the angle, wiped grease from her wrist. Checked the same bolt twice.
Moved slower than usual. Every few minutes, her gaze flicked toward the phone she'd left face-down.
Still nothing.
The longer the silence stretched, the more her skin itched with the weight of it. Not because she needed a reply.
Because he wasn't giving her one.
Not right away. Not on her terms.
And that—
That made her want to scream.
By the time Carmen returned to the bay to ask about lunch, Elena's phone was still quiet. And her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
The afternoon dragged.
Jobs came in—small stuff. A belt replacement, a bad sensor, some guy with a mystery rattle that turned out to be a rogue water bottle under his seat.
Elena handled it all with a mechanical sort of calm, her movements clean, practiced. But her rhythm was off.
She was too careful with the tools. Too sharp with her tone. She dropped her socked wrench once and didn't flinch when it clattered loud across the bay floor.
Carmen didn't say anything at first. Just worked alongside her like usual—filling in the gaps when Elena went quiet, tossing a joke now and then to test the air.
By late afternoon, they were wiping down the counters and locking up for the night. Carmen glanced sideways at her, finally speaking.
"You good?"
Elena kept her eyes on the rag in her hand. "yeah."
A beat.
"You sure?"
Elena turned, gave her a tight smile. "Just tired."
It was a lie, and they both knew it. But Carmen nodded anyway. "Then go home. I'll finish locking up."
Elena hesitated, then handed over the keys. "Thanks."
She left the shop a few minutes later, the Mustang rumbling beneath her like it had been waiting all day to move. The sky was pale with dusk, the air thick with head and dust. Her phone sat on the passenger seat.
Still silent.
She didn't check it again. Didn't let herself.
Instead, she gripped the wheel tighter and drove like the silence wasn't starting to burn.
She parked in the driveway instead of the garage. Didn't even think about it—just killed the engine, sat there a second too long, then climbed out like it meant nothing.
Inside, the house was quiet. Just the creak of the door closing behind her and the dull echo of her own footsteps.
She didn't change out of her coveralls. Didn't open the windows. Just dropped her bag by the table, filled her glass of water, and stood at the sink while the sun bled gold across the tile.
Still no message.
The phone lay on the counter. Face down. Silent.
Elena didn't touch it.
She didn't eat dinner. Didn't turn on the TV. Just moved through the motions like she'd forgotten what they were supposed to mean.
When Carmen came in later—flushed from heat and movement, talking about something her mom said at lunch—Elena offered a small smile, half a nod.
She didn't bring it up. Carmen didn't ask.