"Carter! I thought you were off tonight, honey. Did you forget your—"
Her words die in her throat. Her gaze shifts three inches to my left, landing on the tall, dark-clad silhouette looming beside me. Margaret’s eyes go wide, performing a slow, exaggerated blink as she processes the person attached to my side. Then, it happens—that slow, knowing smirk begins at the corners of her mouth and spreads upward across her face like a rising tide.
"Is our order ready?" Dominic asks.
The sound of his voice—low, impatient, and very muchthere—makes Margaret’s smirk twitch with renewed intensity. She doesn't even look at him; she keeps her eyes locked on mine, her head tilting just a fraction as if to ask,Since when?
Dominic clears his throat, impatient.
"I—yes. Let me just..." She spins around, doing a little uncoordinated hustle toward the kitchen. "Gary! Order for... for Carter!" She puts a ridiculous amount of emphasis on my name.
The kitchen door bursts open and Gary stumbles out, one large bag of takeout precariously balanced in his arms. "Yeah, yeah, keep your hair on, Marge, I’m coming—"
Gary stops dead. He looks at the bag, then at Dominic, and then his gaze lands on me. His grip falters, and the bag slips, sliding through his fingers. He fumbles it against his chest, performing a frantic, limb-flailing save that ends with him clutching the burgers like a football. As he rights himself, he catches my eye and his expression morphs into that same, insufferable grin as Margaret.
"Oh," Gary manages, his voice an octave higher than usual as he stares at who is beside me standing at the counter. "Here. Right here. Sir. We didn't know Carter was... bringing company."
Dominic doesn't bother with the pleasantries. He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a few bills, and drops them onto thecounter. I catch a glimpse of the top note and realize he’s just paid enough to cover the meal three times over.
"Keep the change," Dominic mutters, his fingers already finding the small of my back to guide me away.
"Hey, Carter!" Margaret calls out, her voice loud enough to rattle the pie case. "How’s Landon doing? Don’t forget to mention the Friday special?"
I feel Dominic’s hand go rigid against my spine at the mention of my dad.
"He's good, Margaret! Goodnight!" I call out, trying to inject as much 'shut up' as possible into the words.
I glance back one last time as the door begins to swing shut. Margaret is leaning over the counter, clutching her cheeks with a delighted, silent 'O' shape, while Gary—thinking he’s being a master of subtlety—is leaning against the coffee machine, miming a frantic steering wheel motion and winking so hard his whole face moves.
I roll my eyes at them, a small huff escaping me as the bell chimes one last time. Dominic’s palm is a heavy, warm weight against my back, a silent claim that propels me forward. The SHIFT sign flickers over us, and I can still feel Gary and Margaret's stares burning through the front window all the way to the car.
The drive the rest of the way is a blur of dark asphalt and more quiet. Dominic turns down the familiar drive tucked behind a wall of overgrown hedges on the edge of the Valerio estate. The headlights sweep over the private garage—a space that usually feels familiar, but tonight, it feels like a pressure cooker.
He kills the engine and the silence rushes in, amplified by the ticking of the cooling metal. He doesn't move to get out immediately. He just stares through the windshield, his hands still draped over the wheel, his knuckles firm even though we’ve stopped moving.
"I have some things I need to finish tonight," he says, his voice low and raspy, cutting clean through the silence.
He’s out of the car before I can argue, the door thudding shut with a finality that leaves me sitting in the dark for a beat. I don't stay there. I grab the bag and follow him inside.
The garage is a cathedral of high-end machinery and old-world grit. While the walls are lined with engines his team tinkers with to test out new things, the center of the room is pure F1—spare wings, racks of specialized tires, and the diagnostic monitors that he’s probably spent more hours staring at than his own reflection.
Dominic is already across the floor, moving with a restless, prowling energy. He sheds his jacket in one fluid motion, tossing it over a stack of tire warmers without looking. He just rolls his sleeves up, exposing the corded muscle of his forearms, and leans over a workbench in the corner. He begins to tear down a perfectly functional part with a focus that’s far too sharp to be about maintenance.
The sound of metal on metal—the rhythmicclink-slideof his tools—is the only thing filling the space. It’s an aggressive, restless sound, like he’s trying to punish the parts for existing.
"Dominic," I say softly.
Theclinkof the wrench stalls. His hand hovers for a fraction of a second before the motion resumes, faster than before.
"Can we talk about today?"
He doesn’t look up. Instead, he drops the wrench and stalks over, his body looming over me. Without a word, he reaches into the bag, his fingers pulling out a burger. He unwraps the paper halfway with that same methodical, slow peeling, then shoves it back into my hand.
"Eat, Shortcut. It’s been a long day. You need food," he mutters, already turning back to the bench before I can even blink.
I stare at the burger, my frustration bubbling up until it hits a boiling point. I don't eat. I march into his space, the item still clutched in my hand like a blunt instrument. I stop right at his elbow, forcing him to acknowledge me.
"How long have you known?" I demand.
