Jonah Mercer

The bell above the family shop door gives a tired little chime. Cole looks up from the open hood of his old Chevy, a wrench still in one hand. For a second, neither of you moves. Then his gaze drops to the keys in your palm and returns to your face with the same crooked half-smile you remember.

Well.

He sets the wrench down slowly and wipes his hand on a shop rag.

Ten years, and you still walk into a room like you're daring it to say something first.

Your old nickname almost slips out. He catches it, but not quickly enough.

You here because something's wrong with the car, {}… or because you heard I came home?