The sun had only just risen over the trees, casting soft amber light across the gravel outside the garage. It was quiet, peaceful—just the rustling of wind through the pines and the occasional creak of metal as the old shop warmed up for the day.
Inside, John was elbow-deep in the hood of a '97 Dodge that had been making a rattling sound he couldn't quite place. His fingers were slick with grease, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Behind him, Sarah swept the concrete floor in gentle arcs, humming softly under her breath. The simple rhythm of the broom and the warmth of morning made the place feel less like a shop and more like a home.
John smiled to himself. There was a strange peace in all of it.
But it only lasted a moment.
He reached behind him to grab a wrench, knocking a metal tray of sockets from the cart. The clatter was sharp and sudden—like a gunshot in the quiet. It echoed off the cinderblock walls with brutal clarity.
The effect was immediate.
The broom clattered to the floor.
Sarah stumbled back, eyes wide and unfocused, her breath catching in short, panicked gasps. Her back hit the wall. She was shrinking in on herself, arms up protectively as if something was about to strike her.
John froze.
"Sarah?"
She didn't respond. Her gaze was locked on the floor, her whole body trembling. A quiet, wounded sound escaped her throat—one John had only ever heard in the worst moments of his life. It wasn't fear.
It was terror.
"Sarah, hey—hey," he said, stepping forward and dropping to one knee. He kept his voice low, steady. "It's okay. It's me. Just me. That was my fault. I dropped the tray. It's alright."
Still nothing. Her arms stayed tight around her head, her breathing short and erratic.
He took a slow breath, then gently lowered himself to sit on the cold shop floor beside her, not touching her, just staying close.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to scare you. That sound—it was an accident."
He placed the wrench he had been holding down with a soft clink, making sure every movement now was careful, measured.
"You're safe here," he said again, voice barely above a whisper. "He's not here. No one's going to hurt you."
Her eyes finally flicked toward him—still clouded with fear, but beginning to register.
"It's just the shop. Just me. It was a dumb mistake, and I should've warned you. I'm sorry."
She blinked, her breath catching. Her arms slowly lowered.
John stayed where he was, hands open on his knees.
After a long minute, she pressed her back to the wall and let out a shaky breath. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"No. No, don't do that," he said gently. "Don't apologize for something he made you carry."
Sarah closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I thought—when I heard it—I thought he was here."
"I know," John said. "I know that sound can live in your bones."
She looked at him, really looked this time. "It's like my brain didn't even ask permission. It just… shut down."
"I get it."
She managed a bitter smile. "You don't have to say that."
"No," John said, eyes shadowed. "I do get it. My old man threw whatever he could grab when he got mean. Bottles. Plates. Tools. Sometimes I still hear it. Even now. You're not crazy."
She wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. "It's exhausting."
"I know."
"I want to be normal," she whispered.
John gave a quiet laugh—low and sad. "Screw normal."
That got the faintest smile from her.
They sat there for another moment in the shared quiet. The morning air shifted through the slightly open bay door, brushing across the floor and lifting the smell of old oil and dust.
John finally stood and extended a hand. "Come on. Let's take a break. I'll make us some coffee—with cream this time."
Sarah hesitated, then placed her hand in his. He helped her to her feet, steadying her as she swayed slightly.
She sniffed, brushing hair from her face. "Sorry for being a mess."
"You're not a mess," John said. "You're healing."
They walked toward the stairs side by side. And as they reached the base, Sarah stopped and looked at him.
"Thank you. For not freaking out. For not… judging."
John looked down at her with a steady gaze. "I told you, you're safe here. And I mean that. Every damn word."
She nodded, eyes shining, and together they climbed the stairs—leaving the cold concrete and sharp echoes behind.
The garage was quiet now, the afternoon sun slanting through the high windows and casting golden streaks across the concrete floor. The sharp scent of oil still lingered, but the heavy energy from earlier had softened into something gentler—something safer.
John wiped his hands on a rag and glanced at the wall clock above the tool chest.
"Almost closing time," he muttered.
He glanced over at Sarah, who was sitting on an overturned milk crate near the back wall, her knees pulled up to her chest, hugging the fuzzy blanket she'd brought down earlier from the apartment. Her eyes were clearer now, less haunted than they had been this morning.
John crossed to the front, turned the lock on the garage's main door, and slid the deadbolt in with a dull, reassuring thunk.
"That's it for today," he said, tossing the rag on the workbench. "You want to watch a movie or something? Clear your head a bit?"
She looked up, surprised. "Like, now?"
"Yeah," he said with a shrug. "No rules around here. Could go full lazy evening if we want."
Sarah's lips curled into a small, shy smile. "That sounds… really nice."
John grabbed the shop's mini fridge handle, then changed course. "What about food? I could order something. Chinese or pizza—your pick."
She blinked at him, stunned like he'd offered her a trip to another country. "I don't even remember the last time I had takeout."
John tilted his head. "What? Really?"
Sarah nodded slowly, pulling the blanket tighter. "At least two years. Probably more."
"Why?"
She hesitated, the words like needles in her throat. "He… didn't like it when I didn't cook. Especially if I even suggested ordering something. He'd lose it. Start yelling. Accuse me of being lazy. Of wasting his money. Of not doing my part."
John's jaw clenched.
She continued, almost detached. "One time, I didn't get home in time to make dinner. Traffic was bad. I got in fifteen minutes later than usual. He was already waiting at the door. Silent. Cold. I tried to explain, said I could make something quick. He just grabbed the plate from the counter and threw it."
Her voice cracked, just a little.
"Spaghetti. Took me two hours to get the stain out of the wall."
John swallowed hard, fists clenching at his sides.
"I used to dream about ordering food," she said quietly, voice trembling with something between sadness and disbelief. "I'd walk past takeout places and think, that smells like freedom. But I never did. I couldn't."
John leaned against the wall across from her and crossed his arms, looking at her with something raw in his eyes.
"You ought to stop calling him your boyfriend."
She blinked.
"What?"
"Someone like that doesn't deserve the title," he said. "He wasn't a boyfriend. Not really. Bastards like that—controlling, abusive, violent—that's not love. That's ownership. You don't call a cage a home, and you don't call that kind of man a boyfriend."
Sarah didn't respond right away. She just stared at the floor, as if the words were settling somewhere deep, rattling around the spaces that had been broken for too long.
Finally, she looked up, voice barely above a whisper. "Ex-boyfriend."
John nodded, his tone gentle but firm. "There you go."
She hugged her knees a little tighter, her voice quiet. "Feels weird to say."
"You'll get used to it. Takes time to see things for what they were."
"I thought I loved him."
"That doesn't mean he loved you back the right way."
She bit her lip, nodded, and looked toward the front door.
John pushed away from the wall, grabbed his phone, and started scrolling. "Alright then, ex-boyfriend be damned—we're getting takeout. Pizza or Chinese?"
She smiled, just a flicker, but it was real. "Chinese."
"Atta girl."
He tapped a few times. "You got a go-to order?"
"I don't know. I haven't had Chinese food since I was like… twenty-one."
"Then we're getting a bit of everything. Lo mein, sesame chicken, dumplings, egg rolls—you can pick what you like, and I'll eat whatever's left."
She laughed—a small, almost shocked sound—and shook her head. "You really don't have to do all this."
"I know I don't," he said, looking at her seriously. "That's the point."
She met his gaze and held it for a beat. That flicker of warmth came again. Safety. Something she hadn't known in years.
He made the call and placed the order, then turned back to her. "Movie time?"
Sarah nodded. "Yeah. Sounds good."
They walked upstairs together in comfortable silence. The past still lived in the shadows, but for tonight—for this moment—it stayed quiet. And in the scent of sesame chicken and the warmth of shared space, Sarah took another step away from who she used to be, and John felt—for the first time in a long while—that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.