Engine Light and Starry Night

Winifred Griffin eased her old van into the gravel lot of Thornpaw Mechanics, the engine light still glaring from the dashboard like it had a personal grudge. Flour clung to her dark hair where it escaped her ponytail, and the warm scent of cinnamon and yeast drifted from the boxes stacked on the passenger seat. She killed the ignition and sat for a moment, fingers tapping the wheel. Another delivery day, another chance to keep the bakery lights on and the community fed. The van had been coughing all morning, but she had pushed it. Bills did not pay themselves, and fresh pastries waited for no one.

She gathered the boxes, balancing them against her soft curves as she stepped out into the cool afternoon air. The garage bay stood open, tools clinking somewhere inside. A tall figure straightened from under the hood of a pickup, broad shoulders stretching a grease-stained shirt. Brock Thornpaw wiped his hands on a rag, amber eyes lifting to meet hers. Even from across the lot she could feel the quiet strength rolling off him, the kind that made the air feel steadier.

“Morning, Brock,” she called, voice bright. “Brought the usual. Cinnamon rolls, bear claws, and those honey oat muffins your pack seems to inhale.”

Brock’s mouth curved, not quite a smile but close. “Winifred. You always know when the boys are getting restless.” His voice came low and rough, like gravel under tires. He crossed the lot in a few long strides and took the top box from her arms, fingers brushing hers for the briefest second. Warm. Callused. Winifred felt the contact linger on her skin longer than it should have.

“Engine light again?” he asked, nodding toward the van.

She sighed. “Yeah. Thought it might be the alternator this time. Or maybe it just hates me.”

He set the box on a workbench and popped her hood without asking. The metal groaned open, and he leaned in, broad back flexing. Winifred watched the way his dark hair caught the light, the easy way he moved despite his size. “I can take a look while you’re here. No charge if it’s quick.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, but the offer warmed her. Brock had fixed little things for her before, always quiet about it. She lingered near the open bay, breathing in motor oil and the faint pine scent that clung to him even in human form.

“I know,” he rumbled, already reaching for a wrench. “Want to anyway.”

She smiled and leaned against the workbench, watching him work. The conversation drifted naturally when she mentioned the clear skies last night. “Couldn’t sleep, so I stepped out back of the bakery. Stars were ridiculous. Felt like the whole sky was putting on a show just for me.”

Brock glanced up, eyes catching hers. “You stargaze?”

“Whenever I can. Something about the quiet. Makes the flour and ovens feel far away for a minute.” She laughed softly. “Probably sounds silly.”

“Not silly.” He tightened something with a soft grunt. “I go out past the ridge on clear nights. Pack land’s got the best view. No lights to wash it out.”

Winifred’s curiosity sparked. “Sounds peaceful. I’ve thought about driving up there, but the van’s been picky.”

He straightened, wiping his hands again. “Fixed the sensor. Was just loose. Should be good now.” The hood closed with a solid thunk. “And it’s on the house.”

“Brock, really, I can pay.”

“Nope.” He stepped closer, handing her the keys. Their fingers brushed again, longer this time. His thumb grazed the back of her hand, calluses rough against her softer skin. The touch sent a quiet shiver up her arm, unexpected and warm. She looked up, meeting those amber eyes, and saw something flicker there, gentle and steady.

“Thanks,” she said, voice softer. “For the van and the star tip.”

Brock nodded, but he didn’t step back right away. “Anytime, Winifred. If you ever want a safe spot to watch, I know a few.” The words hung between them, light but carrying weight. Winifred felt the spark settle low in her chest, small and bright, like a new star just winking into view.

She climbed back into the van, the engine turning over smooth this time. As she pulled out, she caught Brock watching from the bay, one hand lifted in a small wave. The touch on her hand lingered all the way back to the bakery, a quiet promise of something more under the same wide sky.