A/N: Early update. Well, earlier than intended.

Thank you, everyone, who voted for me in the TwiFic Fandom Awards. You are the sweetest! I won first place for Favorite Potential Best-Selling Author (don't tell me it was a mistake, it makes me too happy), first place for Favorite 5ever Fic (Alaska), first place for Favorite Snuggle Fic (Maybe a Dance), and second place for Favorite Scream Fic (Emma Matthews, after all these years!). Like many others, I'm sad that this is the last year for these awards, but it's been such a delight. It must be enormously time- and energy-consuming to do this for free, year after year, and I'm so grateful to the fantastic team behind the awards.

And you, my readers, kind and supportive beyond what I deserve, thank you. It's a delight to have such a generous fandom to share my words with :)

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Scheduled for Friday
by Anton M.

28: Clutch Cover

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Saturday, January 28 (cont.)

"So there's one thing I don't understand," I said, watching the traffic move at a snail's pace on SR 70 as we returned to Austell. "Why'd you ask me to go out with you if you knew I was interested in someone else?"

Because we were cool kids who definitely didn't care about Joshua's Law, Peter had picked me up in an Uber, so that's what we were using to get back home. We had not, in the end, gone for the movies because nothing sounded quite date-worthy and the Uber situation was annoying to figure out. Instead, we spent our evening in Woodall, a lovely restaurant with the weirdest paintings on its white brick walls. I had a great time. We talked, we ate, we laughed, and I didn't need my lion scarf, my pepper spray nor Emmett having dinner in Desta Ethiopian Kitchen right next door (or even Edward a text message away) to save me.

Peter wore jeans and a blue polka-dot button up that was a few sizes too big for his thin frame, and I got to know him a bit. He collected antique lighters (which I definitely didn't know was a thing), he spent his weekends playing League Of Legends, and he hoped to become a video game designer. His older (and only) sister was studying Geosciences at Georgia State University. His father was a Respiratory Care Technician (with a dream of switching jobs because of his hunky-dory front row seat to how beautifully hospitals handled corona), and his mother freelanced for the New York Post and Atlanta Daily World.

Peter was cool if a bit insecure. He rarely dared to claim something without my approval. I'd always thought I was a people-pleaser, and I was, but Peter took people-pleasing to a whole new level.

He made me realize that… I was a bit loud. I interrupted people. My parents never really punished any of my odd ideas, so I put myself out there a lot, but his need for constant reassurance and my input for everything was a bit tiring. My entire life consisted of one decision after another, day after day, scheduling and conflicts, when to study for school, when to study my lines, when to be tutored, when meet my financial advisor, and how to squeeze in living life between it all.

So, what to most girls (maybe) would've felt like consideration, like Peter asking for my opinion every step of our evening, to me felt a bit like… decision fatigue.

It was not Peter's fault: he was perfectly kind and lovely. It just wasn't my brand of kind and lovely. It was sweet that he wanted my opinion on what he should order (and then again for dessert), and how I felt about his hobbies and dreams. Also, he liked me, which made his eagerness for my approval worse… and made me feel guiltier for not liking him. It was totally unfair that I couldn't just switch attraction on and off.

I had no regrets about going on a date with him, and I was totally up for staying friends with him (if he wanted to), but I tried, and I didn't feel an inkling of a flutter. It was a shame, really. It would've been so convenient to fall in love with a guy who actually liked me back.

I turned my attention back to the grey-eyed boy next to me in the Volkswagen Arteon we drove in, and Peter untangled his pony-tail before he retied it, his eyes on my face.

"Not like he was available, so… figured it's worth a shot," he replied with a small smile.

"You're a braver person than I am."

He pushed back his glasses. "Nah, I doubt that."

We made small talk for the rest of the ride until the Uber came to a stop in front of my house. The kitchen lights were on but our driveway was dark, and I gave Peter cash to cover for my share of the ride. He stepped out of the car with me. It was a crisp, beautiful night, and I didn't walk up to the porch because I wanted to bask in this evening for a little while longer.

I was happy to have been on a real date with a real boy who liked me.

"Thank you," I said, grinning. "I had a lot of fun."

Peter pressed his lips together in a bittersweet smile, no doubt noticing how I didn't even attempt to give him false hope.

"Me, too," he replied, searching my eyes. "But I guess there's no point in asking if I could kiss you, huh?"

I could see his blush even in the relative darkness of the driveway.

"That depends. Is it cruel or kind if I agree to it?"

"Kind," he replied a little too quickly, his eyes lighting up in such an obvious way that I had to laugh. I stepped closer, kissing him, more than a peck but less than a full French kiss. Our lips moved together for a few seconds before we parted. It was… neutral. Not unpleasant—better than my onscreen kiss with Mike but not even close to my heart-fluttering, tingly, breathless kiss with Edward.

Peter grinned, his cheeks still tinted pink, and I gave him a sheepish smile, knowing he could tell the apology in my eyes.

"It's okay if you think I'm the biggest asshole ever," I said quietly. "I just—"

"Don't worry about it," he interrupted me. It was the first time he'd spoken over me, which made me feel worse because, while clearly not thrilled, he was so respectful about my lack of reciprocation of his feelings.

Ugh. I hope his parents tell him I'm stupid and he deserves better.

He pushed back his glasses and gave me a sad but polite smile. "See you in school, Zendaya."

"Sure thing. Thanks again for the lovely evening."

Head full of my first date, I watched the Uber turn around in the nearby cul-de-sac and waved at Peter as he left. The only sounds echoing in the crisp winter night were the Gibsons' shouting at their beagle-harrier to stop barking inside the house, and I began to walk up to our front porch when a shadow of a man emerged from the garage.

I screamed.

"It's me," Edward said, his palm gripping my forearm and pushing my hand to the side. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Panting, I slapped my hand against my chest and realized I'd pulled out my pepper spray.

"Jesus Christ," I almost hissed, taking the world's biggest breath before I lowered my arm and returned my pepper-spray to my handbag. "Make a sound, will you? Any sound. Fuck."

"Sorry," Edward repeated sheepishly.

"Why are you here in the darkness? How are you still here? It's, what—" I took out my phone to check the time when our front door flew open and my parents ran out in their slippers. I gave them an exhausted smile.

"I'm okay," I assured them, taking yet another deep breath. "Edward just scared me. I'll be inside in a moment."

Relieved eyes darted between us before my parents returned inside, but they'd only just done that when I had to reassure Mr. Gibson next door that I was okay. When he, too, relaxed in the knowledge that no girls were being kidnapped in the night, Edward waved his arm under the sensor of our garage. We both squinted as the LED light blinded us.

"It goes out every thirty minutes," he explained. "I was just about to put it on when you returned but I didn't want to interrupt your evening and draw attention to myself."

Edward stood tall in my dad's stained but insulated construction jacket with sleeves that were too short for his arms. He'd wrapped my mom's Tartan scarf around his neck. The vapor of his breath ghosted against my forehead as he pulled his bottom lip in his mouth, assessing me. A dirty smudge covered his left cheek. His shoulders were tense, eyes guarded, jaw clenched, and yet… intimidating as he looked, I felt alight in his gaze, jittery with nerves and overwhelmed by his presence.

"How was your evening?" he asked, almost forcing out the words, locking eyes with me before he began to gather tools on top of the rag on the garage floor around his motorcycle.

I followed him. "It was great."

"You going to see him again?"

I felt like he was on edge, frustrated or sad and definitely a bit irritable. Not that I could blame him given that he seemed to have spent his evening fixing his motorcycle.

"No, I… I don't think so."

His head snapped up.

"No?" he asked, voice sharp before he began to reattach a large metal plate to the side of his bike. "I guess Emmett's a tough guy to beat," he said with his voice impenetrable in a way I wish it wasn't. "How'd you meet him, anyway? Dude must have recruiters beating down his door to join their football teams, the size he is. The second coming of John Krahn, save for height."

I didn't speak football but I did bluff—I mean, answer his question. "He was an extra at work."

Focused on his bike, Edward sat, one leg curled on the floor and the other propped up under his elbow. He nodded but didn't take his eyes from his bike.

"Are you okay?" I asked, gently, daunted by his sharp, dismissive tone. "Are you mad at me? I feel like you're mad at me."

Edward's shoulders slumped but he looked up. "No," he replied, his voice softer. "Of course not." He ran his palm over his face, smudging the stain on his cheek further. His sigh blew a tissue behind his bike. Pausing his work on his motorcycle, he looked up at me, his eyes running over my body and lingering on my face. Warmth filled me. His expression, so intimidating a few seconds ago, felt raw and vulnerable, and if I didn't know any better, I'd have thought I saw hurt or longing in his eyes, but that was probably wishful thinking.

"No," he repeated. "I'm sorry. It's been a long, frustrating evening. It's not your fault."

Relieved that his frustrations had (hopefully) more to do with his motorcycle than me, I crouched next to him. "Did my parents feed you at least?"

I felt like the sun came out when a smile finally tugged in the corner of his lips. "Too much," he replied. "Two bowls of noodle soup with beef, I don't remember the name—"

"Phở Bò?"

"That one. And a sandwich after your dad took me to buy a few parts for my bike." He looked at me funny, squinting. "You know you have the coolest parents who ever lived? It's no wonder you're such a—"

He cut himself off. I grinned.

"Were you going to say a pain in the ass? Because if so—"

I nudged him but almost fell myself had Edward not steadied me against him. His palm gripped my thigh as his arm wrapped around my curled-up body. His lips parted, his eyes flickering between my eyes and my mouth, and I felt breathless.

Would he have noticed if I straddled his lap, tickled his buzz cut with my fingertips and pressed my lips against his?

He probably would've. I was glad he couldn't tell that my insides tingled just from the thought of repeating our kiss.

"No," Edward replied, his tender voice and proximity squeezing my heart.

"What, then?" I whispered, not daring to breathe (in the quiet tension surrounding us), but sadly, he tightened his grip on my thigh before he let go of me. His eyes were glued to the spot, and sure enough, I had a grayish brown handprint-shaped stain on my left thigh.

Our eyes locked, and Edward let out the cutest half-laugh, half-groan.

"I'm sorry. I'm not doing this on purpose."

"Really?" I asked with a giant grin before I could help myself. "Making all my clothes unwearable is not a ploy to get me naked?"

I felt aflame when Edward's eyes simmered with blazing energy, but I couldn't be sure it wasn't all just my imagination.

"Did you discover the issue with your bike?" I asked, distracting myself from his eyes.

I loved watching his eyelashes move as he hesitated. He tore his eyes from mine and explained the details of figuring out the issue(s) with his bike.

He'd used my dad's multimeter to make sure his bike was pulling good amps (whatever that meant). He'd discovered a chattering valve. He'd checked the valves, plugs, and wires, replaced the timing chain tensioner and figured out an issue in the coils. Taken with his passion for his motorcycle but not having a clue as to what he was talking about, I asked questions and listened as if I understood him.

At the very core of what I needed to know, was: Edward had agreed with my dad that my dad would borrow one of our neighbor's, Miss Brown's, truck to take Edward and his (nonfunctioning) motorcycle home if he didn't get it to work before eleven, but Edward had figured out the core of the issue before ten (and tested that his motorcycle turned on), and now he was just reattaching some of the more esthetic and protective elements of the bike.

Easy-peasy. Definitely knew all the words coming out of his mouth.

When Edward was done talking, I put my handbag on the floor and sat properly on my knees on the rag next to him.

"I think I understood the conjunctions and the adjectives, so you'll have to give me a proper lesson about how this all works later," I told him. "For now, can I reattach the clutch cover? That's the last thing, right?"

Yes, I am very proud that I could pay attention to what was coming out of his mouth with the most attractive eyes on my face.

Edward squinted at me. "Why?"

"If I can ever even begin to convince my parents to get myself one of these, they are much more likely to allow it if I can fix one. Is that okay?"

He hesitated. "You'll get dirty."

I looked down at my stained tights before locking eyes with him. "I thought it was every guy's dream to have a dirty girl on her knees working on his motorcycle?"

I did not just say that.

Tell me I did not just say that.

Heat flushed my skin. Embarrassed by my total lack of flirting skills, I avoided his eyes and willed the earth to swallow me whole. Edward, though, instead of an answer, shifted behind me and surrounded me with his bent legs. His chest touched my back as he leaned forward and took hold of the clutch cover.

"Let me remove this so that you can do the whole thing," he said in a rough, low voice that made hair in the back of my neck rise. His arms surrounded me, his warm breath blew against my cheek, and I didn't dare breathe too loud as he removed the metal. I took it.

"It's… heavy."

"Older bikes tend to have heavier covers. Cast iron, probably," Edward said with that near-hoarse edge in his voice. "Newer ones tend to be lighter. Ducatis sometimes have a see-through clutch cover." His face lingered next to mine, cheek-to-cheek, as he helped me lift it into place again. The insides of his biceps squeezed against my sides, and I could barely follow his instructions with his entire body engulfing me as I kneeled between his legs.

I took the chain of Allen keys he gave me.

"Ever use a hex wrench?"

"Yes," I replied, happy that I wasn't the most useless girl in the world. "Dad calls them Allen keys, though."

"It's the same thing," Edward said, kindly, his cheek so close to mine I could've turned my head and kissed him. He removed one of the Allen keys from the chain and handed it to me. Heart pounding in my throat, I began to attach what he called were side filter bolts in little holes in the clutch cover, and Edward held the cover in place with one hand before he shifted and took hold of my thigh with the other, exactly where he'd stained it. My hands faltered.

"This okay?" he asked, quietly, his breath warming my cheek.

I nodded, too breathless to trust my voice. Edward was holding me in his arms, his cold palm squeezing my thigh, his face hovering just inches next to mine and his presence so visceral I could barely focus. I was surrounded by him, and I tried to come up with a topic so that I didn't turn around and convince him to give me a UTI on the garage floor.

"What happens if you don't reattach the clutch cover?" I asked, proud of how level I kept my voice.

"Nothing, usually." He cleared his throat and brushed maddening little circles on my thigh with his thumb. "Some leave it off for years. But if you get unlucky, your jeans can get caught inside and rip off some of your calf. And, some sadists drive open chain-driven primaries… which is wholly different beast from these smaller belts, and that could easily lose you a leg if the chain snaps mid-drive."

Terrified, I turned my head and found Edward so close that I struggled to focus on his face. His forest green eyes were full of some unnamed emotion that filled me with butterflies, care and danger and anticipation, and I almost floated away when his gaze locked on my lips. He was maddeningly close, his pulse, his breath, his scent.

"Please tell me you don't leave any of it open."

He squeezed my thigh, his voice low and rough and oh-so-close. "My mother would rise from the dead just to beat me to a pulp if I played around with open belts and chains on a motorcycle."

"Good," I said before I realized how he could've misinterpreted my comment and slapped my hand on his knee, eyes wide.

"I know what you meant," Edward said, his nose brushing against my cheek. Not letting go of my thigh, he adjusted his body and took out his phone, checking the time. It was 10:36.

"I promised my dad I'd be home by eleven."

"Sorry," I whispered, feeling the weight of the possibility that Edward didn't feel quite as taken with my questioning and our proximity as I did. "I'm asking too many questions again."

"Not at all," he replied softly, his lips grazing my cheek as he spoke. "I love this," he whispered directly in my ear, rubbing his thumb back and forth on my thigh. I could've burst into flames.

I'll cry if I can't convince this boy to fall in love with me.

Even as I was hyper aware of Edward surrounding me with his lean, wide-shouldered body, I didn't move as I finished reattaching the bolts to the clutch cover and the bike itself. Edward, arms on either side of me, checked my work and only strengthened one of the bolts before he returned the Allan key to its chain.

We were done, but neither of us moved.

I shifted to turn slightly towards him, and he took his hand from the motorcycle to wrap it around my front, resting his palm on top of his other hand on my thigh. It was such a small, sweet gesture, not getting the rest of my outfit dirty, more so because now he was practically hugging me. I met his gaze and almost floated away in tiny love particles at the quiet intensity in his eyes.

"Hi," he whispered, squeezing his arms around me. He was so incredibly close that his breath warmed my lips.

"Hi," I replied, voice equally quiet. Facing half away from him, I rested one hand on his upper thigh and pressed the other against his chest. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears. "You have a smudge on your cheek."

His eyes blazed when he tilted his head closer to mine. "Where?"

The lights timed out.

Neither of us moved.

I slid my palm on his neck to get a better idea of where his face was in the darkness. Holding my breath, I leaned my head closer to his until the tip of my nose touched his jaw. Aiming for his cheek, I slid my nose upwards, feeling the barely-there but undeniable coarseness of his stubble (he definitely shaved) until I pressed my nose fully against his cheek. "Here."

I could feel his smile in the way his cheek moved. His arms tightened around me.

"Oh, yeah?" he replied, voice rough and full of suppressed emotion. I was near-paralyzed with nerves, trying to gather the guts to kiss him.

"Did you guys already—" dad spoke, making me jump.

Edward removed his arms from around me as if he was stung, rushing to get up, but I tugged at his elbow and prevented him from standing.

Dad, wearing striped pajama bottoms and an old black jacket, stifled his all-knowing smile. "I just wanted to make sure you knew it's almost eleven. Do you need help putting stuff back?"

"We're okay," I rushed to answer, looking at him in a way that hopefully threatened murder if he didn't leave us alone (even if I knew it meant a lifetime of teasing ahead of me).

"I'm almost done," Edward said politely. "Thank you, sir."

Dad's eyes glinted with amusement but he returned to the house, leaving us sitting by the motorcycle in the silence of the evening under the blinding LED lights. Edward hesitated, lowering his hand once again to squeeze my thigh and causing flutters in my stomach. He bit his lower lip.

"I really must get going," he whispered. My head swam with the regret in his voice.

"I know," I replied, wishing with everything in me that I could've frozen time to stay in his arms. "I'll help you."

We gathered the tools and put them away as best we could, pushed Edward's motorcycle to the driveway and shut the front of the garage. Edward came inside to wash his hands with dish soap, returned dad's construction jacket and mom's scarf, and slid into his own unstained grey jacket. His friendly camaraderie with my parents warmed me up inside, and it squeezed my heart how natural his presence in our home felt. He didn't feel like a guest. It was silly to be touched by something so small, but the few hours he'd spent with my parents without me meant that he hugged them goodbye.

Winking at me behind Edward, my dad left us alone in the hallway, and I hadn't intended to hug Edward because I felt like my crush was already too obvious, but I couldn't not hug him with my parents getting in on the action.

Edward's grip tightened around me. He lifted me up for a few seconds before putting me down, and I breathed in his scent. I pulled back. His eyes were full of emotions, all sparkly tenderness and awe, almost. I wasn't sure what it was but the way he looked at me made me feel like the most important girl in the world.

"Is your hedgehog finally asleep now?" I asked, grinning.

"My hedgehog?"

"The one that crawled up your ass the other day."

Eyes twinkling and face breaking into a grin, Edward shook his head and laughed. Holding my breath, I pulled myself on my tiptoes and kissed his (clean) cheek.

"Message me when you get home so that I know you made it."

It was a dauntingly girlfriend-y request but I stood by it. Edward's lips parted, his dazed eyes searching mine, and he touched my hairdo. "Okay," he replied, voice just a little bit breathy and rough, but then, he zipped up his jacket, took his helmet, and shut the door after himself, leaving me breathless in the hallway.

…