The garage smelled different when Leo arrived that morning.
It wasn't the grease—he knew that smell like skin. It wasn't the metal or the oil or the heat trapped beneath the zinc roof. It was something else. Something quieter. Heavier.
Expectation.
Word had spread faster than he thought. Mechanics talked. Drivers talked. Even customers who barely looked at him before now paused longer, their eyes lingering on his hands, his face.
The man who had paid for a woman's education.
The man she left.
Leo kept his head down as he rolled open the garage doors. The sun crawled in slowly, catching on tools, glinting off old engines like tired eyes waking up.
"Morning, Oga Scholar," Musa called from the corner, half-smiling.
A few others laughed, but it wasn't cruel. Not really. It was curiosity wrapped in humor, the kind men used when they didn't know what to say.
Leo nodded once. "Morning."
He didn't explain. He didn't correct them. He picked up his rag and went to work.
Because work was the only thing that hadn't betrayed him.
By noon, the heat was unbearable. Sweat soaked through his shirt, mixing with oil until he looked like he belonged exactly where he stood. A customer watched him work on a faulty transmission, eyes sharp.
"You're Leo, abi?"
"Yes."
"You're the one that sponsored that lady."
Leo tightened a bolt. "I fixed cars. You want it done today or tomorrow?"
The man blinked, then laughed awkwardly. "Today. Today is fine."
People always wanted stories. Leo offered only results.
He didn't expect to see her again so soon.
Sophia stood across the street, shaded by a tree, dressed in a way that looked too soft for the heat. She wasn't alone. A man stood beside her—tall, clean, shoes that had never known oil.
Leo didn't stop working.
She crossed anyway.
"Leo," she said.
Her voice still knew his name.
He wiped his hands slowly, deliberately. "You're blocking the entrance."
"I just want to talk."
He looked at the man behind her. "Bring your audience later."
Sophia turned, murmured something. The man hesitated, then stepped back.
Silence stretched between them, filled with engines and shouting and life refusing to pause.
"You didn't answer my messages," she said.
"I read them."
"And?"
"And I decided silence was kinder."
She flinched. "You don't have to be cruel."
He met her eyes then. Really looked.
"You left," he said quietly. "I didn't beg. I didn't fight you. I didn't call your family. I let you go. What more kindness do you want?"
Her hands twisted together. "People are talking."
He laughed once, sharp and humorless. "They always were. The difference now is that they believe them."
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
"That doesn't change the hurt."
Sophia swallowed. "You could have been more ambitious. You were comfortable."
The word landed like a slap.
"Comfortable?" he repeated. "I worked two shifts to pay your fees. I sold my motorcycle. I skipped meals."
"That was your choice."
"Yes," he agreed. "And leaving was yours."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes softened. "I didn't know you'd be like this."
"Like what?"
"Still here."
Leo leaned against the car, folding his arms. "I didn't burn my life down because you walked away."
She nodded slowly, as if that answer unsettled her.
"I hope you're okay," she said finally.
"I am," he replied. "But not because of you."
She walked away without another word.
Leo watched her go, then turned back to the engine.
The car started on the first try.
That evening, Musa sat beside him on an overturned bucket, sharing a bottle of water.
"You could leave," Musa said. "With your reputation now, another shop would take you."
Leo shook his head. "Running doesn't make you free."
"So what does?"
Leo thought of the nights he'd stayed awake worrying about money. Of the mornings he'd woken up believing love meant endurance. Of the moment Sophia looked at him like he was something she'd outgrown.
"Staying," he said. "And choosing differently."
A week later, opportunity came disguised as humiliation.
A luxury car broke down outside the garage—engine seized, owner furious. Other shops had turned him away.
Leo listened. Asked questions. Opened the hood.
"Can you fix it?" the man demanded.
"Yes," Leo said. "But it won't be cheap."
The man scoffed. "You're just a mechanic."
Leo met his gaze. "And you're stranded."
The deal was struck.
Three days later, the car drove out perfect.
The man paid without argument.
Then he asked, "Do you work alone?"
Leo wiped his hands. "No. But I lead."
A card was exchanged.
Something shifted.
That night, Leo sat alone in his room, hands clean for once, staring at the ceiling.
He thought of Sophia—not with longing, but clarity.
He had loved her with everything he had.
She had loved him until it became inconvenient.
And somehow, he had survived.
He wasn't angry anymore.
He was awake.
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