The house was quiet when Elena got home. Afternoon light stretched through the windows in gold ribbons, catching on the dust and the edges of her boots as she walked through the hallway. The key was still where she'd left it—on the kitchen counter.
Undisturbed. Untouched. Unanswered.
She didn't pick it up. Not yet.
Carmen's voice floated in from the living room—low, distracted. Not the usual sing-song sass or sarcastic commentary. Just a quiet, muffled hum, like someone talking to themselves.
Elena followed it and found Carmen on the couch, phone in hand, staring at the screen like it had offended her personally.
"Everything okay?"
Carmen flinched—just barely. Then locked her screen and smiled too quickly. "Yeah. Totally. Just...scrolling."
Elena raised a brow. "Since when do you scroll like you're defusing a bomb?"
Carmen shrugged. "Rough morning. I needed to check out for a sec."
Elena didn't move. She just watched her.
Carmen shifted, pulling her legs up onto the couch. "How was the garage?"
"Quiet." Elena tilted her head. "You see something?"
"What? No." Carmen's smile slipped. "Why?"
Elena walked over, sat on the arm of the couch, arms folded. Calm, but sharp.
"You're weird when you lie."
"I'm not lying."
"You're hiding something then."
Carmen exhaled hard, head dropping back onto the cushions. "God, I hate that you're like this."
"Like what?"
"Like a heat-seeking missile for people's bad decisions."
Elena didn't blink. "Where was it?"
Carmen looked at her for a long moment. Then, finally, gave in.
"I saw it."
"The Mustang?"
Carmen nodded.
"Where?"
"Down by the pier. Near that old bait shop. Parked like it belonged there."
Elena's pulse kicked up, quiet but firm.
"Was he there?"
Carmen shook her head. "If he was, I didn't see him."
Elena was already reaching for her boots.
"Lenny—" Carmen started. But Elena didn't stop moving.
"Don't," she said quietly. "You can't ask me not to look."
She moved back into the kitchen without another word.
The key sat on the counter where she left is—small, heavy, waiting.
She grabbed it. Felt the chill of the metal against her skin. Carmen followed, standing in the doorway like she didn't know whether to get in the way or get out of it.
"Lenny," she said carefully, "just—think for a second. You don't even know what you're walking into."
Elena slid the key into her pocket. Her jaw was tight enough to ache. "I'm not walking into anything," she said. "I'm walking toward something."
"Same thing when you don't know where it leads."
Elena turned, meeting her eyes across the space between them.
"I don't need to know," she said quietly. "I just need to move."
Carmen opened her mouth but closed it again. She looked like she wanted to say something sharp, something to pull her back. But she didn't. Because there was a look in Elena's face now—something fixed. Determined. Maybe even reckless.
"Elena..." Carmen tried one last time. "You don't have to prove anything."
Elena's hand brushed the outline of the key in her pocket. "I'm not trying to prove anything," she said. "I'm just done with standing still."
Without another word, she crossed the room, grabbed her jacket from the hook, and bolted out the door. The slam of it echoed down the hallway like a second heartbeat.
The drive to the pier was fast. Focused. The kind of focused that came from letting your gut drive for once, instead of your head.
Elena barely noticed the city blurring past the windows. Barely heard the low thrum of the engine, the way it vibrated through the steering wheel and into her hands. All the felt was the key in her jacket pocket.
And the pull.
By the time she hit the waterfront, the sun was dipping low—gold light bleeding into the edges of the clouds, turning the water into liquid glass.
She pulled into the cracked lot across from the old bait shop and killed the engine. For a second, she just sat there. Breathing. Listening to the way the world softened around her.
Then she stepped out.
The air smelled like salt, metal, and old wood.
And there it was. The Mustang. Parked crooked in a slot by the pier. Black paint catching the dying sun. Low and mean and waiting like it knew she would come.
Her chest tightened. But she walked toward it anyway. Slow, measured, hands loose at her sides.
There was no one there. Just the car. And the key in her pocket.
Elena stopped a few feet away. Studied it. It was the same car. Same plates, same stubborn, brutal beauty. It looked untouched. And yet—it felt different. Like it wasn't just parked. It was placed.
Waiting. A choice. Not a command.
She continued moving towards the car until she reached the driver's side. Her fingers brushed the edge of the door. It wasn't locked. She hesitated. Still, she pulled the door open.
It creaked just a little—enough to cut through the hum of the sea breeze and the lazy slap of water against the pier. Inside, the cabin smelled like old leather, motor oil, and heat.
She sat down in the driver's seat. The Mustang settled around her, warm and quiet, the leather sighing beneath her weight.
The world outside blurred into something distant—the faint rattle of rigging, the late sun bleeding gold into the sky.
She sat still behind the wheel, the key heavy in her pocket, hands resting loose in her lap. The air inside the car was heavier. Tighter. Almost expectant.
She closed her eyes for a second, breathing it all in—the old leather, the lingering heat, the faint bite of gasoline baked into the seats.
The car shifted.
Just slightly.
A shift of weight. A presence that hadn't been there a second ago.
Elena's eyes opened.
She turned her head—slow, steady—and found him there.
Seated beside her like he had always meant to be.
Close enough that she could feel it—the low hum of him, the steady, unshakable pull. Black shirt stretched across his shoulders. Hair a little tousled. Eyes the color of deep earth edged with storm.
He said nothing at first. Just looked at her.
And when he finally spoke, it was soft enough to fold right into the heat between them.
"It suits you."
The words settled in the tight space between them, heavy as a hand against her skin.
Elena didn't move. Didn't need to.
The Mustang held its breath around them—waiting for whichever one of them broke first.