The Mustang sat in Bay Two like it owned the place.
Elena had pulled it in after lunch, just before the heat peaked. The garage was quiet now—Carmen out on a parts run, no customers lingering, no music. Just the steady hum of the overhead fan and the soft clink of her tools hitting metal.
She liked the quiet. Usually.
But today, her focus drifted.
She tightened bolts and checked tension, but her mind kept slipping—back to the moment he just left the keys like it meant nothing. Like she meant something.
She didn't know his name. Didn't know what he did. But he'd walked away from a car like this without blinking.
She leaned into the engine bay, checking the chain alignment, tracing her fingers along the edge of the housing.
And stopped.
There was a part she needed. A small component—simple, but specific. And out of stock.
She cursed under her breath and stepped back, wiping her hands on her thigh. It wasn't a big deal. Not really.
But it meant she couldn't finish. Not yet. And she hated leaving things unfinished. Especially when they were built like this.
She stared at the engine like it had insulted her. Not the whole thing—just one piece. A tensioner pulley, worn down to the bone. Common part but not for a '69 Mustang modded with aftermarket internals. The usual replacements wouldn't fit.
She had three on the shelf. None of them were right.
Elena muttered something low and specific, then walked to her desk and tugges open the parts catalog. Flipped through it fast—faster than usual. Her eyes scanned numbers, manufacturers, shipping timelines.
All too slow.
She tapped her pen against the page, thinking.
It wasn't the kind of part you could face or finesse. No quick fix. And calling in a favor from a dealership down the road? That would mean explaining who it was for—and she didn't want to say his name.
Didn't even have his name.
She looked over her shoulder at the car. It sat there like it was waiting. Like it knew she wasn't finished.
Elena dropped the pen. Let it clatter. She wasn't used to being paused. Slowed. Made to wait.
And definitely not because of a man.
She took a breath, pulled her phone from her back pocket, and scrolled down past the usual numbers—suppliers, junkyards, weird late-night mechanics who owed her favors—and stopped on one she hadn't called in months.
She didn't press dial. Just stared at the name.
Carmen's voice startled her from the doorway. "Please tell me you're not mad enough to yell at the carburetor again."
Elena slid the phone back into her pocket. "Not yelling."
"Uh-huh. You've got that murdered-by-a-small-part look."
I need something i don't have."
"Let me guess—tall, moody, and wears black?"
Elena tossed the rag at her. Missed on purpose.
Carmen laughed like a little child on a playground. Elena rolled her eyes.
"You gonna call somebody, or just scowl at it till it fixes itself?" Carmen asked after being done laughing.
Elena hesitated. Just a second.
Then turned and walked toward the side door with her phone in hand.
She stood outside in the fading light, the air thick with that late-summer warmth that clung to everything. Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Mack
Her dad had never explained how he knew the man—just that he always delivered. No receipts. No questions. No repeats.
She hadn't spoken to him since the funeral. But she'd kept the number.
And today, something about the car... and the man who left is... had her reaching for it again.
She hit Call.
Three rings. Then—
"Elena?" The voice hadn't changed. Rough. Dry. Familiar.
"I need a part," she said.
"You sure that's all?"
She hesitated. "Tensioner pulley. Mustang. Sixty-nine. Black. Modded. Bad timing."
There was a long pause. Like he was checking something in his head. Or in a file somewhere she couldn't see.
"That car wouldn't be black with chrome trim and smoked glass?"
Elena's fingers curled around the phone.
"Yeah. Why?"
Another pause. This one heavier.
"I'll call you back."
Click.
The call ended with a flat click, but the silence it left felt louder than it should've.
Elena lowered the phone, staring at the screen like it might say something else. I'll call you back.
That was all Mack ever said when something wasn't simple. And Mack didn't do complicated Unless he had to.
She tucked the phone into her back pocket, jaw set. Walked back into the garage without a word. The Mustang sat there, hood open, patient.
Waiting.
She didn't look at it right away. She went to the sink, washed her hands slowly—fingernails black with grease, palms red from the heat of the work.
Her reflection in the small mirror above the sink looked exactly how she felt: tired. Focused. A little too aware.
Mack knew the car.
Not a guess. Not a maybe. He recognized it.
And that meant something Elena wasn't sure she wanted to know. She dried her hands and turned back toward the bay. The Mustang hadn't moved. But now, it felt like it was watching her.