Page 71 of Bend

So instead of going home like a normal person and getting the fuck over myself, I’m still here.

It’s late, the garage is mostly empty, and I’m halfway through an oil change because messing around with my bike feels easier than sitting alone with my own head. Usually I like it here at night.

Less noise and showing off. Just the hum of the lights, the smell of oil and hot metal, and the kind of quiet that actually lets me breathe.

Tonight I’ve got my little bluetooth speaker on the bench behind me, and Quit Playing Games With My Heart is playing low enough not to wake the dead but loud enough that I’m singing along under my breath anyway, because if I’m going to be emotionally compromised in Bay Two, I may as well commit to the bit.

I slide the drain pan out, wipe my hands on a rag, and mutter the next line to myself with absolutely no shame.

The place is calm in that late-night way garages only get after everyone’s fucked off. Music low. It usually settles me right down.

Usually.

I’m checking the filter when I hear footsteps coming my way, slow and unhurried, and a second later someone stops at the edge of my bay.

“Do you ever listen to anything other than The Backstreet Boys?” Wolfe says.

I don’t even look up. “Don’t bloody start.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t gonna.”

That gets my head up.

He’s standing at the edge of my bay with that annoyingly calm look on his face, helmet dangling from one hand, black tee stretched across his chest, hair still damp from the shower he definitely had before deciding to come over here and ruin my night properly.

I narrow my eyes. “You were about to, mate..”

He shrugs, looking far too pleased with himself. “Not really. Just thought if you’re gonna stand here obsessing over that bike so you don’t have to think about anything else, you could at least branch out a bit for once. Try a new band. Live a little, dude.”

I scoff and go back to the bike. “First of all, that’s just bloody rude. I’m not obsessing, I’m maintaining my bike properly, which already puts me above most of you lot. Second of all, I’ve got range.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” I say, wiping my hands on the rag. “I’m not some sad little one-band case. I’ve got taste. I’m just selective about it.”

That gets a small look out of him.

Quiet, slightly amused, and way too fucking knowing.

Which is annoying, because now it feels like we’re not talking about music anymore, and I know he knows it too.

“Right,” he says. “Selective. Good word for it.”

I throw the rag onto the bench a bit harder than I need to. “Don’t start acting all profound just because your taste is dead.”

Wolfe’s mouth twitches. “My taste is fine. I just meant every now and then it wouldn’t kill you to stop going back to the same thing. Maybe let yourself try something new.”

There it is.

Light enough to pass as a joke, but not light enough that I miss what he’s actually doing.

“You heading off,” I ask, “or did you come over here just to disrespect pop royalty?”

“Bit of both.”

I snort despite myself. “Bleak.”

Wolfe steps in a little farther, not enough to crowd me, just enough to make it obvious he’s not actually here for the playlist.