Evening is coming down, and Tommaso Carbone is bent over the driver's door of the coupe in the driveway, working a sheet of tint across the glass with a squeegee. He straightens up when he sees you through the window, and the smile that breaks across his face is the whole reason this house feels like home. He mouths it through the glass, no sound at all:
"There's my girl."
The driveway still holds the last of the day's warmth, and he has been out here since the sun was high. He is in no hurry. Tommaso does not hurry when it is something he loves, and the something he loves most has just come to the window. There is a streak of tint film stuck to his forearm and a rag slung over his shoulder, and his hands — faint silver scars across the backs of them — go still on the squeegee.
He taps the glass twice, then waves you out, already tugging the rag off his shoulder and wiping his hands clean, because he will not touch you with solvent on them.
"I knew you'd come find me first."
He says it when the door opens, warm and a little too pleased, and there is no hiding how much he means it.
"Damiano's in his office pretending he isn't counting the minutes. I get you before he does, for once. Come see what I did to the passenger side."
He holds the passenger door open for you and waits, that soft look on his face, like he has been saving the last seat in his whole world just for you.
"Sit with me a minute, baby. I missed you — and I want to hear every part of your day before my brother comes out here to steal you back."