“That thing could’ve hit you.”
“I noticed!”
“Then why didn’t you set the brake?”
“I did!”
“Clearly not well enough.”
“Excuse me?” My irritation flares, cutting through the adrenaline. “Maybe the problem is your hill.”
“My hill?” he repeats, incredulous.
“Yes, your hill!”
He stares at me for a second like he can’t decide whether to be angry or something else entirely. Then he shakes his head sharply.
“Pop the hood.”
“What?”
“The hood,” he repeats. “Now.”
I hesitate, then move to do it, lifting it open. He leans in immediately, inspecting something near the engine with focused intensity.
“Brake line’s worn,” he mutters. “Shouldn’t have held in the first place.”
“So it’s not my fault.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied you should check things like this before trusting them on an incline.”
I cross my arms. “I just drove this thing across two states. It was fine.”
“It’s not fine now.”
“Clearly.”
He shoots me a look. I shoot one right back. For a moment, the tension between us crackles, sharp and undeniable. Then he exhales roughly and goes back to work.
“I’ll fix it,” he says.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“No, but you need it.”
“I can call someone?—”
“You don’t have signal,” he cuts in.
I stop.
“…how do you know that?”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps working. That should bother me more than it does. Instead, I watch him. The way he moves—precise, efficient. Like every motion is deliberate, controlled. There’s no hesitation, no wasted effort.