"You're doing great," Daryl's voice came from behind me, surprisingly encouraging.
"Thanks," I called back with a smile.
As we neared his garage, I carefully guided the car into position while Daryl continued to push with steady strength. Finally, we came to a stop just outside his shop.
Daryl walked around to the driver's side window and leaned in slightly. "See? Not so bad."
I let out a relieved breath and grinned up at him. "You were right."
Once we had the car positioned outside his garage, Daryl didn't waste any time. He opened the large, metal door with a practiced ease and gestured for me to guide the car inside. I did as instructed, maneuvering it carefully into the garage.
As soon as I put it in park and turned off the ignition, Daryl was at the hood again. I climbed out and stood nearby, watching as he popped it open and began his inspection. He moved with a confidence and familiarity that spoke of years spent in garages just like this one. It was clear he knew every inch of an engine.
I leaned against a nearby workbench, taking the opportunity to observe him. His focus was unwavering, his hands deftly moving from part to part as he examined the battery connections. The muscles in his forearms tensed and relaxed with each motion, and I could see a faint sheen of sweat on his brow despite the cold.
Daryl's garage was a mix of organized chaos—tools neatly arranged on one side, while various car parts and pieces lay scattered on another. It felt like a place where real work got done, where problems were solved.
"Looks like the battery needs replacing," he muttered to himself, more than to me.
I watched him for a moment longer before deciding to speak up. "Is it bad?"
He looked up briefly, his eyes meeting mine for just a second before returning to the engine. "Not too bad. Just old."
There was something almost soothing about watching him work. His movements were methodical, almost rhythmic. I could see why he might prefer the solitude of this place over social interactions—here, things were straightforward.
"Can you fix it?" I asked, feeling slightly foolish for asking such an obvious question but wanting to fill the silence.
"Yeah," he replied simply, already reaching for a wrench. "I'll replace the battery and check the connections."
I nodded, even though he wasn't looking at me. "Thank you."
He didn't respond verbally but gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
I texted Ellie what happened, but she didn’t seem to mind. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she orchestrated this whole thing.
For a while, we fell into a comfortable silence—the only sounds were those of tools clinking and metal parts being adjusted. The air smelled faintly of oil and rubber—a scent that somehow felt reassuring in its familiarity. I couldn't help but wonder what had led him to become so closed off from others. There was clearly more to Daryl Walker than met the eye, and maybe... just maybe... I'd get to learn what that was someday.
I walked around the garage, my eyes drawn to the car in the corner. It was an old Impala, partially disassembled with parts strewn about. Despite its current state, I could see the potential for beauty.
"Are you building this car?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
Daryl looked over from where he was working on my car. "Fixing it up."
I took a few steps closer, inspecting the sleek lines and imagining it restored to its former glory. "You're doing an amazing job," I said earnestly. "It looks great."
"Don't matter what it looks like," he replied, his voice steady and pragmatic. "What matters is, can it run."
I smiled at his straightforwardness. There was something admirable about his focus on function over form. As I continued to look around the garage, my eyes roamed over various tools and projects in progress. The place felt alive with activity, each piece telling a story of its own.
Without realizing it, I started humming a tune. It was one of those melodies that had been stuck in my head all day—something Christmasy and poppy, cheerful and lighthearted. Before long, the hum turned into soft singing.
Daryl's hands paused for a moment as he listened, but he didn't look up. He continued working, but I could sense a subtle shift in the atmosphere. My voice filled the space between us, creating a connection through music.
I let myself get lost in the song, feeling a sense of comfort wash over me. There was something therapeutic about singing—an escape from reality, even if just for a moment.
As I finished the last few notes, I realized what I'd been doing and blushed slightly. "Sorry," I mumbled, feeling self-conscious.
Daryl finally looked up from his work, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Not bad," he said simply before returning to the engine.
