The garage smelled like smoke for three straight days.

Not cinematic smoke.

Not cool movie smoke drifting through golden light while sad music played.

This smelled like melted wiring, burned rubber, wet drywall, and financial collapse.

Evie stood in the middle of the damage holding a clipboard.

Luis sat nearby on an overturned bucket eating vending machine chips with the hollow stare of a man recently victimized by insurance forms.

“So,” he said carefully, “good news?”

Evie looked up slowly.

“There’s good news?”

“The coffee machine survived.”

A long silence.

“…I’m gonna walk into traffic.”

“Fair.”

Most of the garage still stood.

Technically.

The ceiling sagged in places. Sprinklers hung broken overhead. Black scorch marks crawled across the walls like the building itself had developed emotional problems.

And her tools—

Evie crouched beside the remains of a melted cabinet and closed her eyes briefly.

“This is sick. Like spiritually sick.”

Luis pointed at the clipboard.

“How bad?”

Evie stared into the middle distance.

“I need forty thousand dollars and possibly a priest.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“My precision torque calibrator exploded.”

Luis nodded immediately.

“…Okay, yeah. Mourn freely.”

Evie rubbed both hands over her face.

The money sucked.

But the tools hurt worse.

Years collecting them.

Custom grip tape.

Modified balances.

Specific weights her hands knew automatically.

Normal people didn’t understand that part.

After long enough, tools stopped feeling separate from muscle memory.

Losing them felt personal.

Like somebody reached into her routine and started pulling pieces out.

Evie leaned back against the damaged workbench.

Then froze.

A truck rolled slowly into the alley outside.

Large.

Black.

Familiar.

“Oh no.”

Luis peeked through the shattered window.

“…Your terrifying boyfriend is here.”

“He is not my boyfriend.”

“The man carried you out of a burning building.”

“That was situational.”

“He ran into fire for your toolbox.”

“That was also situational.”

Luis looked unconvinced in a deeply judgmental way.

The truck doors opened outside.

Evie braced herself automatically for tactical boots and emotionally unavailable eye contact.

Instead, three workers climbed out carrying crates.

Evie blinked.

“…What.”

Another truck pulled in behind the first one.

Then another.

Workers started unloading equipment onto the sidewalk.

Large metal cases.

Industrial tool chests.

Replacement parts.

Evie walked outside slowly.

One worker checked a clipboard.

“Delivery for Evelyn Mercer.”

“…I didn’t order anything.”

“Already paid for.”

Oh no.

Absolutely not.

Workers kept unloading while Evie stood there trying to process the growing mountain of equipment appearing in front of her garage.

Hydraulic lift.

Welding stations.

Diagnostic scanners.

Custom socket kits.

Then she saw it.

“No.”

Evie moved toward one crate faster now and ripped it open.

Inside sat a pristine precision torque calibrator.

Same model.

Same discontinued manufacturer.

Same grip style.

Evie stared at it silently.

Luis wandered outside beside her still holding chips.

“…Holy shit.”

Another crate opened.

Then another.

Every destroyed tool.

Every single one.

Not random replacements either.

Exact matches.

Even the rare ones.

Even the custom ones.

Evie’s stomach tightened painfully.

“No,” she muttered under her breath.

Luis looked between her and the equipment.

“So we’re all agreeing this is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened, right?”

“It’s not romantic.”

“He tracked down discontinued equipment, Evie.”

“It’s practical.”

“You are actively trying not to cry over a socket wrench.”

“That is not what’s happening.”

A final worker approached carrying paperwork.

“Miss Mercer?”

Evie took the clipboard absently.

At the bottom of the invoice:

PAID IN FULL.

No note.

No message.

No signature.

Nothing.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because of course Cassian wouldn’t leave a message.

Cassian didn’t do messages.

He did things.

Quietly.

Like violence.

Evie looked down at the wrench still sitting in her hand.

Same weight.

New grip tape.

Perfect balance.

Exactly how she liked it.

And he remembered.

That part kept hitting harder than it should.

She mentioned the model once.

One time.

Half distracted while covered in soot and yelling about insurance fraud.

And somehow he remembered every detail.

Luis leaned against the garage doorway.

“So,” he said carefully, “when exactly are you planning to admit you’re in love with the murder cryptid?”

Evie looked horrified.

“I am not in love with him.”

“Mhm.”

“He barely talks.”

“Correct.”

“He looks federally concerning.”

“Also correct.”

“He probably has classified war crimes.”

Luis thought about it.

“…Honestly, statistically? Probably.”

Evie pointed at him triumphantly.

“Exactly.”

Luis nodded slowly.

“Counterpoint.”

“What.”

“He carried you through a collapsing building while people shot at him.”

Silence.

Evie hated that silence immediately.

Because her brain replayed everything automatically.

Cassian walking through flames carrying her toolboxes.

Cassian grabbing her waist before the ceiling collapsed.

Cassian remembering the red toolbox because she mentioned it once.

Stupid behavior.

Highly inconvenient behavior.

Evie looked down at the wrench again.

Her thumb brushed over the new grip tape slowly.

Luis watched her carefully.

“You okay?”

Evie scoffed instantly.

“Obviously.”

“You look emotional.”

“I look expensive.”

“Uh-huh.”

She rolled her eyes hard enough to count as cardio.

Then deliberately set the wrench aside.

Like it didn’t matter.

Like her pulse hadn’t gone weird over a man silently rebuilding parts of her life.

“Anyway,” she announced loudly, “this changes nothing.”

Luis looked at the mountain of equipment.

“This feels dishonest.”

“It’s not.”

“Mhm.”

Evie ignored him professionally.

That night, she placed the wrench beside her bed before going to sleep.

Entirely by accident.