Page 8 of Diesel’s Second Chance

"Why not?" He turns to face me. "I've got an extra bed upstairs. It's not fancy, but it's dry and safe. You can wait out the worst of it."

The offer is practical, sensible. But the thought of staying here, in Jackson's space, with all this tension crackling between us, feels dangerous.

"I don't want to impose,"

"You're not imposing. You're being smart." He's using his reasonable voice, the one that doesn't allow for argument. "June, you can barely see the parking lot from here. What happens if you hydroplane? Or drive into standing water you can't see?"

He's right. I know he's right. But that doesn't make this feel any less complicated.

"Okay," I finally say. "But just until the rain lets up."

"Deal." Jackson moves toward the door leading to the stairs. "Come on. I'll make coffee."

I follow him through the narrow hallway and up the stairs to his apartment. I've never been up here before, never had a reason to be. The space is small but tidy: a living area with a worn couch and coffee table, a kitchen barely bigger than a closet, three doors that probably lead to the main bedroom, a guest room, and a bathroom.

"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch. "I'll get that coffee started."

I perch on the edge of the couch, still damp from the rain, and watch him move around the tiny kitchen. He fills the coffee maker, measures grounds, sets it to brew. All with the same precision he brings to everything.

"Do you have guests often?" I ask, just to fill the silence.

"Not really." He leans against the counter, waiting for the coffee. "The brothers come by sometimes if they need something fixed after hours. But mostly it's just me."

Jackson's always been solitary, even as a kid. But there's a difference between choosing solitude and having it forced on you by circumstance and grief.

"That must get lonely," I say before I can stop myself.

Jackson shrugs. "I'm used to it."

"That's not the same as it being okay."

"No. I guess it's not."

The coffee maker beeps. Jackson pours two cups, adds sugar to mine without asking because he remembers how I take it. He hands me the mug and sits down on the opposite end of the couch, maintaining some distance.

We sit in silence, listening to the rain hammer the building. It shows no signs of letting up.

Chapter 3 - Diesel

The coffee's too hot to drink but I take a sip anyway, letting it burn my tongue so I have something to focus on besides June sitting on my couch looking soft, worried and completely unaware of what she's doing to me.

This is a mistake. I should've insisted she wait it out in the garage, should've kept the boundaries I've spent years maintaining. But the thought of her driving home in visibility near zero, roads flooding, alone, made something primal kick in my chest that overrode common sense.

So now she's here. In my space. Drinking coffee I made her, wearing a sweater that's still damp from the rain, looking at me like she's trying to solve a puzzle I've been hiding pieces of.

"How long have you lived up here?" she asks, glancing around the small apartment.

"Since my dad died. Didn't make sense to keep the house after that." I take another sip of coffee, ignore the burn. "Sold it, moved into the apartment. Everything I need is right here."

It's not exactly true. The apartment's functional: place to sleep, eat, shower, but it's not a home. Never tried to make it one. Home requires an investment I haven't been willing to make, a future I can't quite see.

"Do you miss it?" June asks. "The house?"

"Sometimes." I set my mug down on the coffee table, lean back into the couch. "Miss the garage more. Dad had a full workshop in the basement, twice the size of what's down there now. Could spread a project out, take my time. Up here it's just maintenance and fast turnarounds."

"You could expand."

"Could." I shrug. "Haven't gotten around to it."