She studied me for a beat. “You don’t talk much. Are you like that with everyone or just with me?”
“Guess it depends on my mood,” I said.
She nodded, like she understood, and started to draw. I could hear the pencil scraping the page, the quick, nervous lines. I focused on the door, on the feel of the grain and the bite of the blade.
When I finished, I brushed the edge with my hand, checked the smoothness, then hefted the door up and set it against the wall. She watched me every step, not even pretending to sketch now.
“You’re strong,” she said. “Shit.” She whispered to herself. “Guess you already knew that.” She wasn’t usually so awkward. It was kind of adorable.
I ignored her and went back inside, propped the door in the frame. It slid in easy now, perfect fit. I set the hinges, screwed them tight, and tested the swing.
It was good work. I took a step back, wiping sweat from my forehead, and realized she was right behind me, standing close enough that I could feel the heat off her skin.
“Barely even broke a sweat that time,” she said, eyes locked on my hands.
I tried to move around her, but she didn’t budge. “You’re in the way.”
She smirked. “What if I want to be?”
The air got thick, like a storm rolling in. My wolf paced, restless. I could smell her now—lemon, sweat, and something else. Hunger, maybe.
She set the sketchbook on the counter, arms folded. “So, why do you hate me, Finn Walsh?”
It hit me square in the chest. I stared at her, searching for a lie, but there wasn’t one.
“I don’t hate you,” I said, flat.
She stepped closer, crowding my space. “You act like you do. Like I’m a problem to be fixed, or a job you got stuck with.”
I let the toolbox drop to the floor, the clang loud in the quiet house. I stood my ground.
“You don’t want the truth,” I said. “Trust me.”
She laughed, sharp. “I wantsomething. Not sure what, but I want it.”
I tried to look away, but she grabbed my wrist, fingers small but strong. “Say it. Whatever you’re holding back. You’re not scaring me.”
I didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, slow, like dragging a confession out of a stubborn dog, I said:
“You’re not ready. You think you are, but you’re not. You act tough, but you’re just a little girl playing grown-up, and I don’t have the patience to break you in.”
She jerked her hand back as if I’d slapped her. Her eyes flashed, teal-blue and wet with rage. “Fuck you.”
I nodded once. “Yeah. That’s about what I expected.”
I turned to go, but she moved faster than I thought possible, darting in front of me and blocking the hall. “Don’t you dare walk out. Not after that.”
“Move,” I said, voice low.
She shook her head, and the bandana slid out of her hair, causing it to fall wild around her face. “No. Make me.”
I could’ve walked around her, could’ve shoved her aside, but my hands wouldn’t move. My body felt like it was filled with static, every nerve on fire.
She stared me down, daring me. “Go on, cowboy. Fix it. Or fuck it up. But stop running.”
Something in me snapped. Maybe it was the weeks of wanting, the nights of not sleeping, the way she kept worming into my head even when I tried to drown her out. Maybe it was my wolf’s incessant chanting, “Mate, mate, mate.”
I grabbed her by the arms, hard enough to leave marks, and pushed her back against the wall. She gasped, not in fear, but in something closer to excitement.
