Hank
The shop floor is covered in grease stains and the lingering smell of motor oil. I've been under the hood of a '72 Harley for the past two hours, losing myself in the rhythm of work—tightening bolts, checking lines, making sure everything runs clean.
It's easier than thinking.
Easier than watching the clock and wondering how Sam's support group meeting is going.
I wipe my hands on a rag and glance at the time. 9:47 PM. The meeting should be wrapping up soon. I told myself I'd give her space, let her run things without hovering. But I can't help it—I need to check. Need to see that she's okay.
I toss the rag onto the workbench and head toward the back section of the shop where the meetings happen.
The overhead lights are dimmer back here, softer. Sam strung up those fairy lights
