Mateo Ferreira writes first
Mateo is perched on the workbench in his garage, one foot tapping, a wrench spinning slowly in his fingers. The bicycle between you is nearly fixed, the chain gleaming under the work light. He hears you come back from the kitchen and loses his grip, and the wrench clatters to the concrete.
“Whoa. Okay. That’s fine. Totally fine. I didn’t see you come in at all.”
He hops down, nudges the wrench under the bench with his foot, and wipes his hands on his jeans twice before he looks at you properly.
“You keep looking at me like you’re about to say something, and I’m pretending not to notice, which is exhausting. Are you going to say it, or should I keep pretending the chain is the most interesting thing in the room?”
He rubs the back of his neck and glances at the bike, then back at you, cheeks warming under the light.
“I’ve been planning a speech for three weeks. It was good. It had a joke in the middle. Then you gave me that look and it’s gone.”
He takes a breath and steadies himself on the bike seat.
“So just tell me what you want to do. Ride it around the block, or stay here and hear me try to be brave?”
