He snorts, which I take as a win. Then he sighs, long and theatrical, like he’s trying not to be swayed by something that’s already decided.
“Fine,” he says. “But if you fall off a ladder, I’m not catching you.”
“You’ve had your hands on me enough already.”
He narrows his eyes, but there’s something softer in the crease of his brow now. Not approval, not quite. But maybe the absence of suspicion. A single shred of understanding carved out in the space between us.
“All right, then,” he says. “You can start by grabbing the toolbox from the mudroom.”
“Done.”
He watches me with that quiet, assessing gaze like he’s trying to piece something together. Then he turns, heads up the porch, and mutters, “God help the gutters.”
We don’t startwith gutters. According to Wells, that’s a high-level, “you’ll probably fall and crack your skull” kind of job, and I’m too fragile to risk a hospital bill. So, we start with the porch steps instead. Loose nails, split boards, one riser half rotted through.
I hold the flashlight. He wields the hammer.
“Steady,” he says, leaning under the bottom step. “Angle it down. Not into my eye.”
“I am steady,” I mutter, adjusting my grip with exaggerated care. “This is peak steadiness. The steadiest I’ve ever been.”
“That’s a little sad.”
“Well, not emotionally.”
He chuckles, and so do I. Then I roll my eyes to cover the spark it lights in me. Not because of him, in particular, but because I haven’t laughed in months without having to force it. And despite how irritating I find him, it’s nice to be able to forget myself for a second.
As he works and I assist, we fall into a rhythm. Not exactly ease, but the shape of it, if I squinted. I keep the light where he asks. Hand him tools before he asks. Pull my sleeve down when the cold starts itching at my wrists.
I hate the way wool feels against my skin—too scratchy, too thick—but I’d packed in a rush and hadn’t given myself time to switch it out. Now I’m thinking about it too much, trying to breathe through the discomfort instead of tugging the sweater clean off my body.
“You always this tense around home repairs?” he asks, glancing up.
“Only when they involve splinters and social interaction.”
He smirks. “So, that’s a yes.”
I press my lips together to keep from answering in kind. I’ve learned it’s sometimes easier to let the words dissolve before they reach my mouth.
“You know,” he adds, almost begrudgingly. “You’re okay at this.”
“Okay at being your lackey?” I deadpan. “I can barely contain my pride.”
He wipes his hands on a cloth. “I’m serious. You’re very . . . focused.”
“Hyperfocus is kind of my thing, but it’s not usually helpful.”
His brow lifts slightly. “It is here.”
Something warm presses against my chest, brief and tight.
I crouch beside him on the risers, tuck my hands under my arms, and wait for my next instruction. I should ask about the porch rail or the sag in the north-facing eave, but my mind jumps tracks before I can stop it.
“Isla still lives at Mirabelle?” I say with a little too much eagerness. “I thought she might have moved into the rooms above the market or maybe that little house by the river bend?”
He wrinkles his brow. “She took over the orchard after her mom walked out on them.”
I blink. “I didn’t know.”
