Page 39 of Endo
I send it before I can second-guess myself, feeling the weight of my decision with every second that passes. The phone sits in my hand, and I stare at it for a while, as if willing it to ring with something more. Something definitive. But nothing comes. Just a silence that stretches between us, pulling tighter and tighter.
Maybe this is a step forward. Shit, maybe it’s a huge mistake. But right now, it’s all I’ve fucking got.
16
LENA
Bad Idea - Dove Cameron
The garage is quiet,save for the occasional creak of metal and the soft hum of the fluorescent lights above. My sneakers scuff against the concrete as I step inside, nerves twisting tight in my stomach. Reign is crouched by his bike, his broad shoulders taut as he leans over, focused on the work in front of him. He’s shirtless, his tattoos sprawling across his chest and arms like a map of stories I’ll never fully understand. His abs are defined, the lines of his muscles sharp under the fluorescent glow, and his dark jeans hang low on his hips, smeared with grease stains that only add to his rugged, untouchable vibe.
My pulse quickens despite myself, and I silently curse the flutter in my chest as he looks up, his green brown eyes locking onto mine. His face is as guarded as ever, but there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the tough exterior—a shadow of vulnerability I rarely get to see.
I brush a strand of hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. My messy bun is barely holding together after the day I’ve had, and my white crop top clings snugly, still crisp despite thesummer heat. My ripped cutoff jean shorts sit low on my hips, and my worn sneakers are dusted with the remnants of the long shift I just finished. The outfit feels light and carefree, but after today, I can’t tell if I’m wearing it or if it’s wearing me.
“Hey,” I manage, my voice quieter than I intended.
“Hey,” he says, standing slowly. His voice is deep and steady, the way it always is, but there’s a hint of tension in it, like he wasn’t expecting me. “What are you doing here?”
I hesitate, twisting the ring on my finger—a nervous habit I’ve had since I was a kid. “I… I wanted to talk. About the other night.”
His brows knit together, and he sets the wrench down on the workbench. “You don’t have to apologize, Lena.”
“I wasn’t going to,” I say quickly, earning the faintest twitch of his lips. “I just… I shouldn’t have yelled at you, okay? I was frustrated, and I didn’t mean half the things I said.”
Reign sighs, running a hand through his hair, his biceps flexing with the motion. “You were right though,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “About all of it. The drinking, the fighting… I’ve been an idiot. And I’ve been taking it out on you, and everyone else around me.”
The weight of his words presses against my chest, but before I can respond, he adds, “I haven’t had a drink since that night. Or stepped into a ring.”
The admission hits me harder than I expect, my heart tightening as I process it. “Reign…”
He shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just wanted you to know.”
Silence settles between us, heavy but not unbearable. He clears his throat, nodding toward the bike. “Want to help? I’m changing the oil, and it’s probably something you should know how to do yourself, just in case, ya know?”
I force a small smile and step closer, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens as I near him. “Sure. What do you need me to do?”
“Well, first,” he says, his voice low but firm. He stands and grabs a shirt from the table—a soft, worn black tee—and holds it out to me. “Put this on. You’re not getting oil or grease all over that white shirt.”
I blink at him, caught off guard, but I take the shirt. “Oh, um, okay.” My voice sounds smaller than I intend, and as I slip it over my head, I can’t help but notice the way it smells—clean with a faint trace of motor oil and something inherently him.
The fabric is soft, worn in a way that feels like it’s been through its fair share of rough days. It’s far too big on me, the hem brushing my thighs and the sleeves hanging loose, but it feels oddly comforting. There’s something about wearing someone else’s shirt that feels strange—intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Especially his.
Reign watches me, his gaze flickering briefly over the shirt before he crouches back down, patting the space beside him again. “Now come here,” he says, quieter this time but with that same steady tone.
I hesitate for a second before stepping closer, settling beside him on the cool concrete. The shirt feels like a shield between me and the vulnerability threatening to creep in. Yet, at the same time, it feels like a reminder of how exposed I am, how unfamiliar this connection between us still is. Suddenly I’m acutely aware of the closeness between us. The scent of motor oil mingles with the faint hint of his aftershave—clean, crisp, and undeniably him.
“Alright,” he begins, holding up a wrench. “First, you have to loosen this bolt. Otherwise, the oil won’t drain.”
I watch as his fingers work the tool with precision, his knuckles bruised and his hands scarred. He hands the wrench to me, his calloused fingers brushing against mine.
“Your turn,” he says, his voice low.
I take the wrench, my hands unsteady as I mimic his movements. He stays close, guiding me with quiet instructions, his shoulder brushing mine every so often. The tension between us is palpable, unspoken but impossible to ignore.
When I finally loosen the bolt, oil begins to drip into the pan beneath the bike. Reign nods, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Not bad,” he says.
