The Workbench

The garage door clangs shut behind us, sealing us in darkness and silence. My heart is still pounding from what happened outside — from the way he grabbed me, from the way he *held* me, from the way my name sounded in his mouth like a prayer instead of a conquest. I watch him clear the workbench in one violent sweep, tools and rags scattering across the concrete with a crash that makes me flinch. The sound hangs in the empty garage like a gunshot. "Sorry," he whispers. I shake my head, not trusting my voice yet. My legs feel unsteady. My blouse is still half-unbuttoned from before, and I can feel the cool garage air on my bare skin where his hands were just minutes ago. He turns to face me. In the dim emergency light, I can barely make out his expression — but his eyes find mine immediately, and something in my chest tightens painfully. *What are you doing, Natalie?* I should make a joke. Something crude about the workbench, about getting grease on my ass, about how this is exactly the kind of slutty thing I'd do. That's my playbook. That's my armor. But the words won't come. He places his hands on my waist — gently this time, nothing like the desperate grip from before — and lifts me onto the bench. The steel is cold against the backs of my thighs and I shiver. "You okay?" he asks quietly, stepping between my legs. I look up at him, this strange, intense, infuriating man who has spent weeks judging me with that fucking *ma'am* and is now standing between my knees like he belongs there. "I don't know," I admit. The honesty of my own voice scares me more than anything that's happened tonight.