Jesse laughed today.
Not the sharp, defensive kind he gave Evan.
Not the breathy chuckle he gave me after sex.
But a real laugh.
Loud.
Open.
Unfiltered.
It happened while I was under the hood of a '68 Impala, covered in grease and swearing under my breath because the socket wrench slipped again.
"You good under there?" he called.
I snapped, "Yeah, just making out with the damn alternator."
When I slid out, he was laughing—head tipped back, grease-streaked hands on his hips.
And I swear to god…
It was the first time I saw him look young.
---
He tossed a rag at me. I caught it.
"You've been working here how long now, and still can't handle that engine?"
"Maybe I just like you looking at my ass."
"Maybe I'll spank it for being useless."
I grinned.
There was no tension. No fear.
Just play.
Just us.
---
Evan walked in halfway through the flirting.
He paused. Eyed us.
Then shrugged.
"Whatever makes the shop run," he muttered. "As long as y'all keep the door locked when shit gets inappropriate."
Jesse raised a brow. "Worried you'll hear something that makes you question your own sexuality?"
Evan grimaced. "Disgusting."
But he didn't storm out.
Didn't accuse.
Didn't bring up the past.
And that?
That felt like progress.
---
We closed early that day.
Took a drive. Windows down. My hand on his thigh. The air smelled like pine and gasoline and the inside of Jesse's truck.
We didn't talk much.
Just listened to old rock on the radio and let the silence stretch without guilt.
At a red light, he glanced over.
"What?"
I shrugged. "Just trying to memorize this."
He smiled.
Not shy.
Not strained.
But soft. True.
The kind of smile you give someone you know you're going to love for a long, long time.
---
But that night—
The car was back.
The same black sedan.
Parked across from the apartment.
No movement.
No lights.
Just waiting.
---
Jesse froze at the window.
"That's him."
I stood beside him.
"Reid?"
Jesse nodded once. "He never just watches."
I gripped his hand.
"We're not scared of him anymore."
"I'm not scared for me," Jesse murmured. "I'm scared for you."
---
And in that quiet, beneath the weight of old trauma and new devotion, I said:
"Then let's stop giving him shadows to hide in."