The part arrived just after nine. Wrapped in plain brown paper, delivered by a guy who didn't look twice at the name on the invoice. He dropped it at the counter, grunted something resembling morning, and was gone before Elena could even nod.
She didn't say much either. Didn't need to.
The box was light. Familiar.
And when she peeled it open with the edge of a utility knife, the tensioner pulley was exactly what she expected— clean, solid, the kind of part that did its job without complaint.
She ran a thumb along the edge out of habit, then set the box aside and walked back into the bay.
The Mustang waited like it always had—silent, patient, full of things it wouldn't say unless you opened it up the right way.
Elena didn't hesitate. She moved like muscle memory—gloves on, tools ready, sleeves rolled. Wrench. Clamp. Twist. Replace.
She didn't think about him. Not really. Just about the work. The feel of things fitting into place. The satisfaction of something done right.
By the time Carmen arrived, coffee in hand and half a croissant in her mouth, the new part was already in.
"You're up early for someone who avoids mornings like a disease," Carmen said around a bite.
Elena didn't look up. "Had something to finish."
"Still brooding over Mystery Mustang?"
Elena tightened a bolt. "No." But her hands moved just a little too carefully.
The Mustang was ready. Clean, closed up, tuned to the point of perfection. Elena had done the last check twice—not because she needed to, but because something about the quiet that morning had felt too unfinished.
She was wiping down her tools when the bell above the shop door gave a sharp, clean chime.
She didn't look up right away.
Footsteps echoed across the concrete—slow, even, measured. The kind that didn't belong to someone asking for an oil change.
Carmen looked up from her seat behind the counter, pen mid-spin in her fingers.
The man who walked in didn't belong to this place. He was all clean lines and structure—charcoal suit, black tie, tailored like a second skin. His hair was neat, his shoes quiet, and his expression unreadable.
He didn't look at Carmen. He looked around. Scanned. Like he was checking that it was safe to speak.
Then, smoothly: "I'm here to pick up the Mustang."
Elena's head lifted from the bay.
It's not him. But someone who was clearly connected.
Carmen gave the guy a quick once-over. "Can i help you with something?"
He turned to her with a rehearsed kind of charm, polite but entirely empty. "Just the pickup."
Elena stepped forward, pulling off her gloves. "He's not coming himself?"
The man glanced at her. Not dismissive—just efficient. The kind of look people give when they've already answered the question in their head.
"Is it done, or not?"
Elena tilted her head, just slightly. "I said i'd call when it was done."
The man's voice didn't change. "You don't have a number to call, plus he said it would be ready."
He didn't blink. Just held her gaze a bit longer than felt necessary—like he was trained to, like he was waiting to see if she'd press.
She didn't.
But something in her cooled a degree.
"Fine," she said. "You want to know what it cost?"
"That's what i'm here for."
He reached inside his jacket, slow and exact, and pulled out a sleek black card. Set it on the counter without hesitation.
Carmen raised her brows slightly. Elena just picked it up, ran the charge. The total flashed across the terminal—he didn't even look.
She printed the receipt, folded it once, and placed it on the counter with the keys. He took both. No signature. No message. No sign of the man who left the car here in the first place.
But before he turned to leave, he looked at Elena again—this time, longer.
Not flirtatious, or threatening, just...aware.
"You did a good job." He said.
Elena held his gaze. "I always do."
A faint nod. Then he walked out, just as quiet as he came in. The door shut behind him, and the silence was louder than it had been all morning.
Carmen let out a slow breath. "What the hell kind of car pickup was that?"
Elena didn't answer right away. Just stared at the empty space in the bay like the car had taken more than its own weight when it left.
Carmen leaned on the counter, arms crossed. "You know you don't have to pretend that wasn't weird, right?"
"He's not the guy who dropped it off."
"Yeah, no kidding. That guy hadd eyes and tension. This one had... paperwork."
Elena smirked, barely. "He had a suit."
"Which is code for: 'i work for someone who doesn't do his own errands.'" Carmen tilted her head. "So why didn't he show?"
Elena grabbed a clean rag and started wiping her hands again, slower this time.
"No idea."
"Bull."
Elena didn't argue. Just folded the rag neatly, set it on the bench. Carmen watched her for another beat, then softened.
"You okay?"
Elena looked over, shrugged. "Yeah."
Carmen didn't believe her—but didn't push. "You want breakfast?"
"Only if you're buying."
"Deal."
They left the garage in silence, the air already warming outside, the scent of oil and something unspoken still clinging to the morning.