Page 74 of Enzo
Easier said than done.
TWENTY-FIVE
Robbie
I’d managed to doze,but the nightmares came back and John’s voice echoed where it didn’t belong, dragging me under. I kicked off the blankets, too hot and then too cold, my skin crawling, wrong. In the end, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders like armor and slipped out into the garage. I paused in the doorway, staring back at the room—the twisted sheets, the stale air. The walls felt too close, but out here, the scent of oil and steel in the air, I could breathe.
I loved my room—it was more of a home than I’d known in so long—but right now, it was too...
Too much.
Pull yourself together.
I’m safe.
I needed to talk face-to-face with Enzo in the morning. I’d tell him all about my overreacting about his overprotectiveness and apologize, and he’d also tell me he’d overreacted. We’d laugh about it, hug, and it would be over.
Well, kind of over
It wouldn’t be truly over, not really. Because he was worried about me. All the freaking time. And deep down, I knew he had every reason to be. The last time I’d tried spending a Sunday with them all in the engine bay, pizza boxes stacked high, a small crappy TV blaring with some car race—it had all been too loud.
The noise, the chaos—Rio chanting as if it was life or death, Jamie cracking a rare smile and whooping when his guy took the lead, Enzo hollering his support, Logan cackling when Enzo’s driver crashed out in a blaze of slow-motion defeat. It was supposed to be fun. Harmless. But the energy swallowed me whole, too loud, too much, too fast. I couldn’t find my footing in the surge of voices, the rise and fall of cheers and groans. It was like drowning in sound, like the parties John used to throw, where laughter hid danger and every loud moment might end with pain. I didn’t belong in noise—I’d learned to disappear inside it.
I hid. I lost my shit, and I hid.
For fuck’s sake.
I started to sing—not well, and my pop music repertoire was limited to whatever Rio played on his radio when everyone was working. Usually, it was some oldies station on a low volume in the background. I started humming, landing on “We Will Rock You”, humming through the parts I couldn’t keep up with. Rio had shown me the video for this on his phone once, and I remember how mesmerized he was, talking about Freddie Mercury like he was some god. He said confidence wasn’t just about having talent but about owning the stage and making people believe in you. He said Freddie had that in spades, and I envied that kind of power, the ability to take up space without apology, to be larger than life when everything inside me felt small.
I wondered what taking up space was for me. Maybe it was standing in the middle of the garage without flinching at every loud noise, or laughing without second-guessing if I deserved to be heard. Maybe it was letting someone touch me and believing I was worth the softness. Someday, I wanted that. I wanted to exist without apology.
I stopped at the Camaro, pulling back a corner of the cover and trailing my fingers over the cool metal of the hood. The car was solid, unmoving, and the smooth curves left after I discounted the rust, were cold beneath my touch. I sighed—I was losing my shit tonight. I traced a slow path along the edge of the hood, following the lines and thinking about how the car would look when we’d finished. I let myself revel in that anticipation for a moment, and a thrill of excitement ran through me. This Sunday, I wasn’t going to hide. I was doing something positive.
I’d stood there too long, and my knees ached, and I was getting cold—enough of this messing about. I need sleep.
I circled back past the kitchen to get a drink, rolling out the tension in my shoulders. Someone was slumped over the table. Shock hit me, sharp and sudden, sending a jolt through my chest, and I backed away, stepping into the shadows, my breath catching in my throat, taking a beat to process. Enzo was there.
Why was he slumped at the table?
He had his head resting on his folded arms, his breathing slow and heavy—fast asleep. His tattered Redcars hoodie was pulled up a little, revealing the tattoos marking his back, traces of dark disappearing under the material, and a tantalizing sliver of tanned skin. His legs were sprawled this way and that as though he’d sat down and passed out mid-thought. I hesitated, wondering if I should wake him or leave him be
Enzo stirred, a slow inhale before he shifted, lifting his head. His dark eyes, like melted chocolate, blinked sleepily at me, and then he smiled—soft, lazy, the kind of smile that made something in my chest tighten.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
“What are you doing down here?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
He yawned, rubbing at his face with one hand. “Couldn’t sleep.” His voice was thick, drowsy, like he hadn’t been aware of where he was until now. He squinted at me. “Why are you up?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I admitted, mirroring his words.
For a moment, we looked at each other, the quiet stretching between us, easy but weighted. Then his expression softened even more. “Are we okay?” he asked.
I turned to the sink, filling a glass with water, using the movement to gather my thoughts. “Of course, we’re okay.”
I turned back to face him, watching as he stretched, his arms reaching high above his head, his hoodie lifting enough to reveal the taut muscles of his stomach, more of the inked designs curling along his ribs. Strong, solid. And yet, despite the hard lines of his body, there was something gentle about him—something safe.
“Why aren’t you in bed,” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
