Jacob drove the Supra like he was trying to remember how to be a person.
He had taken the long way out of the industrial district, not because it was smarter, but because it was quieter. Morning had turned into late afternoon without him noticing—hours spent in the shop with the laptop's glow and the impossible comfort-room music bleeding into the air like a soft sedative. When he finally stepped outside, the sunlight hit him with a kind of blunt honesty.
The 1997 Supra waited at the curb like it belonged there. It looked real in the most dangerous way: clean, legal, plated. The kind of car that could sit outside a taco stand without starting a riot. The kind of car you could drive past a patrol cruiser without your throat trying to crawl out of your chest.
OWNER: JACOB COOPER, the system had said, like it was nothing.
Jacob slid into the driver's seat and sat for a moment with both hands resting on the wheel, staring at the worn texture of the leather and trying to steady the tremor in his breathing.
He had outrun the sky the night before.
Now he had to survive a red light without flinching.
When he finally started the engine, the Supra's note came alive smooth and deep—confident, not feral. It didn't snarl like the M3 GTR. It didn't feel like it wanted to eat the horizon. It sounded like a car that knew how to exist in daylight.
He drove into Los Angeles slowly.
Not because he couldn't go fast.
Because he was scared of how easy it would be.
The city in 2001 had a texture he hadn't realized he'd missed until he was inside it: old billboards with sun-faded faces, payphones that still stood like stubborn relics, strip-mall neon buzzing even in daylight. Radios played pop and R&B and rock that felt like memory made audible.
Cars were boxier, louder in their imperfections—rattling trim, squeaky belts, the occasional puff of exhaust at idle.
People held flip phones to their ears. Some still carried pagers. You could feel the internet in the background of life, not sitting on top of it yet—more rumor than constant presence.
Jacob passed a used CD shop and felt an ache he didn't understand until he did: he remembered standing in places like that, thumbing through cases, pretending he wasn't lonely.
He stopped at a drive-thru for coffee he didn't need, just to hear a human voice ask him what he wanted. The girl at the window barely looked up as she handed him a cup, and the indifference felt like a gift.
No one knew him.
Not Jacob Cooper.
Not Wanted.
He rolled down the window and let warm air in, and for a few minutes he let himself enjoy the early-2000s luxury of being unremarkable.
Then he saw the copycats.
It started as noise—engines revving too high, tires chirping, a crowd clustered where it shouldn't be. He took a turn and found a small group of kids gathered in an empty lot behind a liquor store, circling a beat-up import like it was a shrine. Someone held a handheld camcorder. Someone else shouted, "Do it like Wanted!"
Jacob's stomach sank.
The driver—barely old enough to shave—jerked the wheel and yanked the handbrake at speed, trying to mimic the J-turn from the video. The car rotated too fast, too sloppy. Tires screamed. The rear swung wide—
—and the front clipped the curb.
Metal hit concrete with a sickening crunch. The car hopped, slammed down, and skidded sideways into a light pole with a hollow boom that shook dust from the sign above the lot.
The crowd scattered in startled laughter and panic. Somebody yelled that the cops were coming, like that was the punchline and the tragedy all at once.
Jacob's hands tightened on the Supra's wheel until his knuckles went white.
He hadn't made that kid try it.
But he had posted the video.
He had fed the myth because some part of him wanted to matter, wanted to exist as something other than a man waiting for punishment.
Now he watched the consequences happen in real time.
He drove away slowly, jaw clenched so hard it ached.
On the radio, a DJ laughed about "that crazy freeway ghost" like it was harmless entertainment. A caller said they'd heard the driver was ex-military. Another swore it was a movie stunt. Someone else said they knew a guy who knew a guy who was selling "Wanted chips" already.
Jacob switched the radio off and sat in the quiet.
The silence didn't help. It just gave his thoughts more room to claw.
By the time he reached the part of the city where the streets started to feel like the movie's DNA—industrial edges, pockets of warehouse lots, people hanging around cars like they were family—Jacob's chest had that tight, uneasy awareness that he was nearing gravity.
He found Harry's without meaning to, like his mind had pulled him there the way a compass needle pulled to north.
Harry's shop sat with its doors open, the smell of oil and hot metal drifting into the street. Cars were half-dismantled inside, hoods up like mouths open mid-sentence.
Men leaned against fenders talking in low voices with that half-laugh that said everything important was being said between the lines.
Jacob drove past once.
Then again, slower.
He didn't park. He didn't go in. He just took it in—the rhythm of the place, the way eyes tracked movement. The way a tuned car rolling by made heads lift without anyone meaning to.
He caught one man—older, heavyset, with the posture of someone who'd been around too long—glance at the Supra a second longer than necessary. Not admiration.
Inventory.
Jacob's gut tightened.
He didn't want attention. Not here. Not from shops that traded in secrets.
He eased the Supra forward and let the traffic swallow him again.
But even as he left, he felt it: the city was a living network, and he had brushed against a node. Even if no one knew his name, they would remember the car. They would remember the line he drove. They would remember he was new.
And new things didn't stay unseen in this world.
Brian got to Toretto's shop early because Bilkins told him to.
He parked his car across the street and sat for a second with his hands resting on the steering wheel, staring at the garage like he could will it to tell him its secrets.
The place looked ordinary at first glance—another mechanic's shop with a sun-faded sign, tools and parts and the smell of work. But Brian knew better. He'd learned fast that the most dangerous places in Los Angeles were the ones that didn't look like anything special.
He took a breath and stepped out, forcing his shoulders loose, forcing his face into something casual.
Undercover meant lying with your whole body.
He crossed the street and walked into the shop with the kind of purposeful uncertainty that made people assume you belonged there.
The sound hit him immediately: metal clinking, an air wrench barking, music playing from somewhere deeper inside.
Heat rolled out of the bays. Grease and gasoline and sun-warmed rubber.
And then he saw her.
Mia Toretto was behind the counter, hair pulled back, hands moving with practiced competence as she rang someone up. She wasn't trying to look tough the way some people did; she just was steady, grounded in the place like she'd grown out of it.
When she looked up, her eyes caught Brian's—quick assessment, not unkind, but alert.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
Brian opened his mouth and discovered, with a sudden, stupid jolt, that he cared what his voice sounded like.
He wasn't supposed to care.
He was supposed to be a role, a cover, a badge wearing a human costume.
But something about the way she held his gaze made him feel exposed in a way the chase footage never had.
"I, uh… heard you guys did good work," he said, keeping it simple. "I'm looking for a tune-up. Maybe more, depending."
Mia's mouth curved faintly—not flirtatious exactly, but amused in that way that made Brian want to earn it again. "Depending on what?"
Brian shrugged like it didn't matter.
"Depending on what you recommend."
It was a line. He knew it was. He'd used variations of it before. It had never landed like this.
Mia studied him for a beat, and Brian felt the heat of it in his chest.
"You racing?" she asked.
Brian forced a laugh, light. "Not like that."
Her eyes narrowed a fraction, like she didn't fully believe him but didn't call him out either. "What do you drive?"
Brian told her, and it sounded too boring in his own ears. Too safe. Too much like the truth he was trying to hide: that he wasn't here because he loved cars—he was here because he was hunting a ghost.
Mia leaned forward slightly on her elbows.
"You want coffee?"
Brian blinked. "Yeah," he said too quickly.
Then he steadied himself. "Sure. That'd be great."
She turned to pour it, and Brian watched her hands move—small, ordinary motion that somehow felt like the most real thing he'd seen in days.
He told himself it was cover.
He told himself it was just a moment.
He didn't believe himself.
When she handed him the cup, their fingers brushed—barely. The contact lasted less than a second.
It stayed in Brian like a bruise.
He looked down into the coffee and felt something shift, dangerous and soft at the same time.
He had come in for a case.
He had walked into a feeling.
The sound of a car outside interrupted the moment before Brian could decide what to do with it.
Not the sharp bark of a cop cruiser. Not the heavy rumble of a truck.
A clean, confident purr.
Mia glanced toward the open bay doors.
Letty—who'd been half-hidden deeper in the shop—also shifted her posture subtly, attention sharpening the way it did when someone interesting arrived.
Brian turned just enough to see.
A black Supra rolled up to the curb and parked with easy precision. The driver stepped out—young, lean, face sharp in that intense way that made him look older and younger at once. Pale eyes. A Cillian Murphy look that suggested he carried too much behind his gaze.
He didn't wear a black racing helmet.
He didn't look like a ghost.
He looked… like a guy who was trying very hard not to look like anything at all.
He walked in with the casual confidence of someone who knew cars and knew people would notice him anyway. His eyes flicked around the shop quickly—not searching for danger exactly, but measuring the room.
Then they landed on Mia.
And something in his face softened.
Brian saw it, and the sight made his stomach tighten in a way that surprised him.
The newcomer smiled. Not big. Controlled.
Like he was offering Mia a secret.
"Hey," he said, voice smooth, pitched low. "You guys open?"
Mia's expression changed—subtle, curious. "We're open."
"Good," the guy said, and his gaze stayed on her just a beat too long. "Because I was hoping you could save me from my own bad decisions."
Mia laughed under her breath, and Brian felt an irrational flash of irritation—sharp enough that it made him angry at himself.
Mia tilted her head. "Bad decisions?"
The guy shrugged as if it didn't matter, but his eyes held hers like it did. "Bought a car I probably shouldn't have. Thought I'd come to people who actually know what they're doing."
Letty moved into view, watching him now with that half-smile that meant she was curious and ready to bite if he gave her reason. Brian noticed Dom wasn't visible yet—but Dom's absence didn't mean Dom wasn't listening.
Mia gestured toward the lot. "That your Supra outside?"
The guy's smile turned almost sheepish.
"Yeah."
"It's clean," Mia said.
He spread his hands. "I try."
Then, casually—too casually—he glanced at Brian, like Brian was just another guy waiting his turn.
"Didn't mean to cut in," the newcomer said to Mia, but his eyes flicked back to her immediately, as if Brian wasn't worth a second thought. "I can wait. Unless you're busy."
Mia's cheeks warmed just a little, and Brian caught it.
Brian hated that he caught it.
"I'm Brian," he heard himself say, stepping slightly forward before he could stop his body from claiming space.
The newcomer's eyes met his—cool, assessing, polite on the surface.
"Jacob," the guy replied. "Jacob Cooper."
He offered a hand.
Brian shook it.
Jacob's grip was firm and steady, but there was something tight in it—like the steadiness was practiced. Like his calm was something he performed rather than something he lived in.
Brian's mind ran automatically: new guy, good car, confident, the timing too perfect. But there was nothing overtly suspicious—no helmet, no blue-and-silver demon machine, no ghost story.
Just a young man in a Supra, smiling at Mia like she was sunlight.
Jacob looked back at Mia and leaned lightly on the counter, posture relaxed. "So," he said, "if I told you I wanted it to feel… alive—not just loud—would that be something you could do?"
Mia smiled again, and it wasn't just customer service. "We can do a lot of things."
Jacob's eyes brightened. "Yeah? Maybe you should tell me what you'd do. I'm terrible at making decisions on my own."
Mia rolled her eyes, amused. "Sounds like a personal problem."
Jacob's smile widened. "It is. I was hoping you could be the solution."
Brian felt heat crawl up his neck.
He held his coffee too tightly and forced himself to breathe like a normal person instead of a man watching his cover story tilt sideways into jealousy.
Mia looked between them—Brian with his quiet earnestness, Jacob with his smooth charm—and something in her expression suggested she was aware of the shift in the room.
Letty watched it like entertainment.
And somewhere deeper in the shop, a tool stopped clanking for half a second—like someone had paused to listen.
Brian's chest tightened with a thought he didn't want:
This wasn't supposed to be personal.
But Mia Toretto looked at him and smiled, and Jacob Cooper looked at her like he'd been lonely long enough to forget how to hide it, and suddenly Brian could feel the ground changing under his feet.
He had come here because his superior believed "Wanted" lived in this circle.
Now he was standing in the circle, holding coffee, shaking hands with a stranger whose calm felt rehearsed—
—and for the first time since the freeway chase, Brian felt a different kind of pursuit begin.
Not sirens.
Not speed.
Something quieter.
Something that could ruin him in ways a crash never could.
Jacob didn't know Brian was a cop.
Brian didn't know Jacob was the ghost the city called Wanted.
Mia knew neither, and yet she stood between them like a spark waiting for fuel.
And the rivalry started there—not with a race, not with violence, but with two men smiling too politely while the same girl's attention became a prize neither of them had planned to want.
...
The afternoon heat had softened into something easier, but the shop still breathed warm air like a living thing.
Mia stood behind the counter with a cup in her hand and that steady, grounded presence that made the chaotic space around her feel organized just by proximity.
Brian tried to keep his posture loose, tried to keep his eyes from following every small movement she made, tried to remind himself—this is a job—and failed in small, quiet ways that made him angry at himself.
Jacob Cooper leaned on the counter like he'd done it a thousand times. He spoke to Mia in a low, easy tone, smiling just enough to feel confident without feeling loud. His intensity sat under the charm like a second layer—something watchful behind pale eyes.
Brian didn't like him.
He didn't have a reason. Not a real one.
That made it worse.
Mia had just opened her mouth to answer Jacob's question—something about what they could do for a Supra—when the bell above the door jangled and a familiar voice cut through the shop noise.
"Mia."
Vince walked in like he owned the air.
He was broad-shouldered, sun-browned, with the kind of swagger that didn't ask permission. His eyes went to Mia first like it was automatic—like she was the only point in the room worth orienting to.
Then he saw Brian.
The warmth in Vince's face tightened. The friendly mask snapped into something sharper.
"And who's this?" Vince asked, voice light but edged.
Brian felt the shift like a hand on the back of his neck. He kept his smile easy. "Brian."
Vince looked at the coffee in Brian's hand as if it were evidence. Then he looked at Mia again, forcing something like a grin. "You giving out free coffee now?"
Mia's expression stayed calm, but Brian caught the tiny roll of her eyes. "He's a customer."
Vince stepped closer to the counter, taking up space, leaning in with that practiced familiarity that said I'm family here. "Yeah?" he said. "Looks like he's getting the VIP treatment."
Mia's tone didn't change. "It's coffee, Vince."
Vince's grin widened like he'd been invited into a joke. "Coffee's the gateway. Next thing you know, you're handing out your number."
Mia shot him a look that should've ended the conversation.
It didn't.
Vince's gaze flicked to Jacob—registering him fully for the first time.
"And you?" Vince asked, like Jacob was a new dent on his car. "Who are you?"
Jacob smiled with controlled politeness, not rising to the bait. "Jacob."
Vince's eyes narrowed slightly. "Just Jacob."
Jacob's smile didn't change. "Just Vince?"
Mia made a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a warning.
Brian felt something flare—annoyance, amusement, tension—because Jacob hadn't backed down. He hadn't tried to smooth it over. He'd met Vince's energy with a quiet mirror.
Vince's jaw tightened as he realized he wasn't the only man in the room who knew how to take a line and hold it steady.
"So," Vince said, turning back to Mia, voice suddenly softer, almost intimate. "What you doing later?"
Mia didn't bite. "Working."
Vince leaned closer. "After."
Mia's eyes held his, steady as a brake pedal under pressure. "Still working."
Brian watched that exchange and felt a strange twist in his chest—because Vince wasn't a stranger. Vince had history here. He had the privilege of proximity, the confidence of someone who'd always been allowed to want Mia out loud.
Brian, in comparison, felt like a man in borrowed skin.
And Jacob… Jacob looked like he'd decided wanting out loud was the only way to keep from disappearing.
The three of them hovered around Mia like satellites competing for the same orbit.
Mia, for her part, looked like she'd done this dance before and was already bored of it.
Jacob tilted his head toward the open bay doors. "I actually came about the Supra," he said, smoothly steering the moment away from Vince's claim.
Mia's attention shifted, grateful for something concrete. "The one outside?"
Jacob nodded. "Yeah. I wanted someone who knows what they're doing to check my work."
Vince's brows lifted. "Your work?"
Jacob's smile softened a fraction. "I did some… tweaks. Nothing crazy. I just—" His voice dipped, and for the first time Brian heard something rawer under it. "I didn't want to drive it around if I messed something up."
There it was.
A crack in the polish.
Not fear of being judged—fear of consequences.
Mia's expression gentled slightly, as if she heard it too. "Okay," she said. "Pop the hood. We'll take a look."
Vince pushed off the counter. "I'll do it."
Mia gave him a look. "You will not."
Vince chuckled like she was adorable when she was stern. "C'mon, Mia—"
"Vince."
One word, flat as a closed door.
Vince's grin faltered.
Jacob turned and headed out toward the Supra without another word, and Brian—against his better judgment—followed. Not too close. Just enough to not be left behind.
The Supra sat gleaming in the light, clean and deceptively normal. Dom still hadn't appeared, but Brian felt the shop's attention subtly shift. It always did when a new car rolled in—like a family looking up when a stranger knocked.
Jacob released the hood latch and lifted it. The metal rose, exposing the engine bay.
And the world changed.
Even Brian, who wasn't a mechanic by trade, felt it—something about the layout that looked too tight, too intentional. Clean routing. Components that seemed slightly out of place, not in a sloppy way, but in a "someone who knows what they're doing changed this" way.
Vince leaned in, and his expression flickered from casual judgment to confusion. "What the hell is this?"
Mia stepped closer, eyes narrowing, scanning. Her face went still—not bored now, not amused—focused.
Brian watched her hands hover near a section of wiring, careful like she didn't want to touch something that might bite.
And then Dom stepped out of the deeper bay as if he'd been listening the whole time.
He wiped his hands on a rag, eyes already on the Supra's open hood. His presence changed the temperature of the space without him raising his voice or taking a bigger stance. He didn't have to.
Dom stopped beside them and looked into the engine bay.
His face didn't give much away.
But something subtle tightened in his gaze—like he'd seen something that didn't belong.
He glanced once at Jacob.
Then back to the engine.
"You did this?" Dom asked.
Jacob didn't flinch. He didn't puff up either. He just nodded, a little too quickly. "Yeah."
Dom's eyes lifted again, measuring Jacob in silence. "Where'd you learn?"
Jacob's throat bobbed as he swallowed. For a heartbeat the charm slipped, and Brian saw the raw edge underneath—loneliness, caution, something like exhaustion.
"Here and there," Jacob said carefully. "I've worked on cars a long time."
Dom's voice stayed calm, but it carried weight. "These parts aren't 'here and there.'"
Mia looked at Dom, then back at the bay, her brow furrowing. "It's… clean," she said. "Too clean."
Vince scoffed, trying to reclaim control. "So what? Dude knows how to wrench."
Dom didn't even look at Vince. His attention stayed on the engine bay like it was a puzzle. "Some of this… isn't standard."
Jacob's hands tightened at his sides. He forced a small smile.
"That's why I came."
Dom finally turned his head fully toward Jacob. His stare wasn't hostile. It was worse than that—quiet, deep, and sharp enough to peel lies away.
"You came here to show it off?" Dom asked.
Jacob shook his head immediately. "No."
The word came out too fast. Too honest.
Jacob's voice softened, and Brian felt the emotion under it like a hand on his own chest.
"I came because I didn't want to screw up. I didn't want—" He stopped, like he'd almost said something too true. He glanced at Mia, then away. "I wanted someone to verify it. Make sure I didn't miss something that'll get me hurt."
That did something to Mia's expression—made her eyes shift, made her see him less like a flirt and more like a person.
Vince noticed, and jealousy sharpened him.
"You scared to drive your own car?
"
Jacob looked at Vince, and his smile had vanished. "I'm scared of stupidity," Jacob said quietly. "There's a difference."
Brian felt the air tighten. A three-way rivalry crystallized in that moment—Vince with his possessive familiarity, Brian with his undercover sincerity turning real, Jacob with his lonely intensity and too-smooth edges.
Dom looked between them once, and Brian had the uncomfortable sense that Dom understood the dynamic instantly—and didn't like it.
Dom leaned back over the engine bay, eyes scanning again. His fingers pointed at a component Brian couldn't name. "This," Dom said, voice low. "Where'd you get it?"
Jacob hesitated—only a fraction, but Dom's eyes caught it.
"I sourced it," Jacob said carefully. "Had… a friend."
Dom's gaze stayed on him, unblinking. "What friend?"
Jacob forced another small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "One that doesn't like being talked about."
Mia's voice cut in, gentle but firm. "Dom, he's here for help."
Dom didn't look away from Jacob. "And he'll get it."
Then Dom finally turned his attention to Mia—just for a second—like a silent instruction. She nodded, understanding something Brian didn't.
Dom's gaze returned to Jacob. "We'll check it. We'll run it. Make sure you didn't miss anything."
Jacob's shoulders eased a fraction. The relief that slipped through was so human it almost hurt to see.
"Thanks," Jacob said.
Mia smiled, and it was small but real. "You can hang around while we look. Or—" her eyes flicked to the office, "—you can wait inside."
Vince immediately slid in. "He can wait outside."
Brian spoke before he meant to. "He can wait wherever he wants."
Vince's eyes snapped to Brian. "You got a problem, pretty boy?"
Brian felt his pulse jump. He kept his face calm, but something in his tone sharpened. "No. I'm just not sure you're the one who gets to decide."
Jacob watched the exchange with quiet interest, like he was cataloging Brian as much as Brian cataloged him.
Then Jacob looked at Mia again—softening—and leaned slightly closer. "If I'm in the way," he said, voice low enough to feel private, "I can disappear."
Mia's eyes held his. "You're not in the way."
Brian felt the words like a small punch.
Vince felt them too. His jaw tightened, and Brian saw the moment Vince decided Jacob wasn't just a customer.
He was competition.
Dom lowered the hood with a controlled motion and clapped Jacob on the shoulder once—not friendly, not unfriendly. A test touch. A measure.
"You said you worked on it yourself," Dom said.
Jacob nodded.
Dom's voice dropped slightly, so it carried less across the shop. "That kind of work gets noticed."
Jacob's smile flickered—this time it looked sad. "Yeah," he said softly. "That's what I'm afraid of."
For a second Brian forgot he was undercover. Forgot the case. Forgot the ghost named Wanted.
He saw only a young man with too much behind his eyes, standing beside a car that looked normal until you lifted the hood and found the future hiding inside.
And Brian didn't know yet that the future in that engine bay had come from a garage that didn't exist on any map—
or that the man standing in front of him was the same ghost who'd outrun helicopters on live television.
But Dom… Dom kept staring at the Supra as if it had whispered something to him.
And Brian could feel, deep in his gut, that this shop had just become the center of a storm.
..
Dom didn't accuse Jacob of anything.
That would've been too easy.
Dom didn't move like a cop, and he didn't move like a kid on a message board chasing a myth. He moved like a man who had survived long enough to understand that truth didn't come from words—it came from pressure.
So he watched Jacob the way you watched a questionable weld: not for the shine, but for the stress marks.
Jacob felt it anyway.
He felt Dom's gaze in the engine bay, in the pause between questions, in the way Dom's silence made every lie feel heavier in the mouth. Jacob kept his posture relaxed on purpose, hands open, shoulders loose, a guy who was "new" and "eager" and "just trying not to break something expensive."
Inside, his heart beat too hard.
He had worn a helmet to be Wanted.
Here, he wore calm.
And calm—he was learning—was a mask that required constant maintenance.
Mia stepped back from the open hood and wiped her hands on a rag. "We can check the tune, make sure it's not running lean, and—"
"Do it," Jacob said quickly, then softened it with a small smile like he hadn't just sounded desperate. "Please."
Vince snorted, leaning in with that lazy, possessive confidence. "Guy's begging like it's his first car."
"It's not," Jacob said, quiet and even. He didn't look at Vince; he looked at Mia. "Just my first one I'm… proud of."
Mia's expression warmed for a second. "Okay," she said. "We'll take care of it."
Brian stood a half-step behind, coffee cooling in his hand, watching Jacob's face when Mia said we'll take care of it. Brian told himself he was observing a potential lead. But his stomach tightened anyway.
Jacob turned toward Brian with polite neutrality. "Thanks for not crashing into me last night," he said, tone casual, almost joking.
Brian stiffened, then forced a laugh. "Wasn't me."
Jacob's eyes held his for a beat too long. Something unreadable lived there—like he was testing Brian the way Dom tested him. Then Jacob looked away, as if the exchange didn't matter.
"Where'd you say you're from?" Mia asked Jacob, flipping a page on a clipboard.
Jacob felt the question land like a hook.
He had to be believable. Not mysterious. Not too slick.
"Not far," he said. "Moved around."
Vince scoffed. "Everybody moves around."
Mia ignored Vince. "You work on cars for a living?"
Jacob took a breath. Then he gave them something that was true enough to sit on.
"I'm… starting out," he admitted. "Mechanic. Sort of."
Dom's eyes lifted sharply. "Sort of."
Jacob forced himself to smile. "I just opened up a little spot. Nothing big. I do basic work, small builds. I'm still learning."
It was the safest version of the truth: I have a shop without saying my shop didn't exist yesterday.
Dom wiped his hands on the rag again, slow. "Where?"
Jacob shrugged lightly, as if embarrassed by how unimpressive it was. "Industrial side. Nothing you'd know. Just… trying to make it work."
Mia's eyes softened. "That's cool."
Vince immediately leaned forward, trying to reclaim the center. "Yeah? You got a lift? Or you just call yourself a mechanic because you bought a socket set?"
Jacob smiled, calm. "I've got a lift."
Vince's expression flickered—irritation that Jacob didn't break.
Brian watched, and something in him took note: Jacob didn't escalate. He redirected.
He kept his voice gentle and let Vince's aggression hang in the air like exhaust.
It was subtle, but it was skill.
Mia poured more coffee—one cup, then another. She handed one to Dom without looking, like she'd done it a thousand times. Then she glanced at Brian.
Brian's heart did something stupid and teenage.
"You want a refill?" she asked.
Brian nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Thanks."
Vince's eyes narrowed as Mia poured.
Jacob leaned in slightly, voice low to Mia, conspiratorial. "Careful," he said. "If you keep doing that, he'll think he's special."
Mia's mouth twitched. "He's a customer."
Jacob's gaze stayed on her. "I'm a customer too."
Mia rolled her eyes, but she smiled.
Brian felt that smile like a challenge.
Vince felt it like theft.
The rivalry didn't flare openly—it simmered under everything, each of them throwing soft hooks: Brian with earnest attention, Vince with familiarity and ownership, Jacob with charm threaded through a quiet loneliness that Mia couldn't help but notice.
Dom didn't comment on the tension.
He just looked at the Supra again.
"Keys," Dom said.
Jacob's chest tightened. "You're going to drive it?"
Dom's expression stayed unreadable. "I'm going to feel it."
Letty appeared like she'd been there all along—leaning on a toolbox, arms crossed, eyes sharp. She pushed off and walked over, glancing from Jacob to Dom.
"I'll go," Letty said.
Dom nodded once. "You ride."
Jacob forced a laugh to keep his nerves from showing. "Just—uh—be gentle."
Letty snorted. "You want gentle, buy a Camry."
Dom took the keys from Jacob. His fingers brushed Jacob's palm for half a second, and Jacob felt it: Dom's grip was solid, sure, like a handshake with gravity.
Dom climbed into the Supra.
Letty slid into the passenger seat.
Mia watched them go with quiet interest.
Vince watched them with annoyance—like Dom's attention on Jacob's car was attention stolen from the shop's usual gravity.
Brian watched like a cop watching a test run—because if the car performed strangely, it was information.
Jacob watched like a man watching someone put a hand on the edge of his secret.
Dom started it.
The Supra's engine settled into a smooth idle—deep, controlled.
Dom's head tilted slightly as he listened.
Letty's eyes flicked across the dash, the gauges, the way the engine note held steady without hunting.
Then Dom rolled out of the lot.
The shop's noises resumed—tools, music, voices—but there was an invisible thread of attention stretching after the Supra as it pulled onto the street.
Mia leaned on the counter again and glanced at Jacob. "So… you really did all that yourself?"
Jacob swallowed. "Most of it."
"What'd you use?" Mia asked. "Like… what parts?"
Jacob's mind flashed to the workshop menu. The Futureline. The system. Things that didn't belong in 2001.
He kept his face smooth. "Just… stuff I could get my hands on," he said carefully. "And some experimenting."
Vince laughed like it was ridiculous. "Experimenting."
Jacob looked at Vince with mild patience. "Yeah. It's how people learn."
Brian watched the exchange and filed it away. Jacob kept saying "learn." Kept saying "starting out." But his work looked too clean for a beginner.
Then Dom came back.
Not immediately. Not after one loop around the block.
Long enough for Mia to glance at the clock.
Long enough for Vince to mutter, "He better not be beating on it." Long enough for Jacob's stomach to twist tighter and tighter.
When the Supra finally rolled back into view, it didn't crawl.
It didn't creep.
It returned with a smooth, controlled aggression that made the tires whisper on the pavement even at low speed.
Dom parked and killed the engine.
He got out slowly.
Letty stepped out too, and her expression wasn't amused anymore.
It was alert.
Dom walked around the front of the car once, gaze distant like he was replaying sensations. Then he looked at Jacob.
"What'd you do to it?" Dom asked.
Jacob forced a shrug. "Just… basic upgrades. Nothing crazy."
Letty laughed once—short, sharp. "That ain't basic."
Mia's eyebrows rose. "What?"
Dom's eyes stayed on Jacob's face. "It pulls harder than it should," Dom said. "It doesn't fall off up top. It stays planted like it's heavier than it is."
Jacob's throat went dry. He kept his tone light. "Maybe it's just… tuned right."
Letty leaned in, gaze sharp as a blade.
"Nah," she said. "I've ridden in 'tuned right.' This felt like—" She searched for the word, then shook her head like it annoyed her.
"Like it wanted to keep going forever."
Dom didn't smile. "You sure you're a 'starting mechanic'?"
Jacob felt the question like a pry bar under a nailed board.
He met Dom's eyes and let a little honesty show—just enough to feel human, not enough to be caught.
"I'm starting," Jacob said quietly. "Doesn't mean I'm stupid."
Dom studied him a beat longer, then nodded once as if he'd accepted the answer without believing it.
He tossed the keys back to Jacob. Jacob caught them, relief and fear twisting together.
Dom's voice dropped slightly, so it carried less across the shop. "That car's got something in it people will want."
Jacob's stomach tightened. "I didn't build it for people."
Dom's gaze held him. "Doesn't matter."
Behind Dom, Mia looked between them, sensing the weight in the air. Vince looked irritated, like Jacob was getting too much of Dom's attention. Brian looked calm on the outside, but his mind was already mapping: unusual power, unusual stability, beginner story doesn't fit.
Jacob tried to smile at Mia again—to pull the moment back into something softer, safer.
"So," Jacob said lightly, "did I screw it up?"
Mia's smile returned, but it was smaller now, thoughtful. "Not from what Dom says."
Vince cut in, eager to reclaim ground. "If Dom says it's good, it's good."
Brian, quiet but present, added, "Or it's good enough to get you in trouble."
Jacob's eyes flicked to Brian—brief, sharp—then away. "Good thing I'm careful," Jacob said.
He said it like he believed it.
But the truth sat heavy under his ribs:
Careful was a skill.
And he was already living too close to the edge for careful to last forever.
Dom turned back toward the shop, voice normal again. "Letty—put it on the lift. Mia—run numbers. See what he did."
Mia nodded.
Letty smirked faintly at Jacob as she walked past him. "Hope you didn't lie about wanting it checked."
Jacob managed a smile under the pressure. "I didn't."
Letty's eyes lingered a beat as if she didn't fully buy it.
As the Supra rolled into the bay, Jacob stood near the counter again—close enough to Mia to feel the warmth of her presence, close enough for Brian and Vince to notice and bristle.
And the three-way rivalry continued in small, sharp gestures:
Vince leaned too close, telling Mia something in a low voice like it was private history.
Brian offered to help with something simple, trying to look useful, trying not to look eager.
Jacob asked Mia a question he didn't need answered, just to hear her voice again.
Mia handled them all with practiced ease, but even she couldn't erase the tension completely.
And Dom, watching from the edge of the bay with a rag in his hands, kept his face calm while his mind quietly turned over one fact:
That Supra had felt like a car from a slightly different world.
And the last time Dom had seen something that didn't belong…
…it had been a blue-and-silver ghost tearing through a street race faster than anything he'd ever known.
He didn't say the name out loud.
But it sat in the shop like a shadow anyway.
Wanted.