“Which means it’s trustworthy.” I set it under the light and reach for the fixture. He steps forward so fast the cold air shrinks.
“Absolutely not.” His palm wraps around my waist and pivots me aside—gentle, effortless, like I weigh the same as the wind.
My body knows him before my brain signs off. Heat leaps where his fingers press through my jacket. The porch, the river, the night—everything narrows to his hand and the scent of cedar and smoke.
“Axel,” I warn. It comes out thinner than I want.
“Stand there,” he says. Not unkind. Just unfiltered. He sets his big hands on the rickety chair and checks the wobble, expression flat with disapproval, then climbs up carefully, bracing one palm to the siding. The jacket stretches across his back. My mouth goes inconveniently dry.
He unscrews the cover, wipes the inside with his shirt hem like he promised me nothing explicit and then did that anyway, checks the bulb, reseats it, and clicks the cover back into place. The light glows steady and bright.
He steps down. He’s closer than he needs to be when his boots hit the boards. We don’t move.
“You were right,” he says, breath fogging between us. “Dirt.”
“Yikes,” I whisper. “A menace, truly.”
The corner of his mouth lifts again. I want to lick it. I don’t. I fold my arms to pin my hands to my ribs and pretend I’m not thinking about the angle his jaw would give me if he leaned down.
“You eat?” he asks, unexpected.
“Define ‘eat.’”
“Not coffee.”
“Rude.” I consider the truth. “I had a protein bar at four.”
His eyes close for half a second like he needs a prayer to deal with me. “Get your coat on properly. I’m taking you to the diner.”
“It’s nine-thirty.”
“Congratulations on knowing numbers. Let’s go.”
“Wow. Dictatorial.”
“It’s dinner.”
“Is this part of the Neighborhood Watch too?”
“It’s part of the Ramirez Program for People Who Work Until They Forget They Have Bodies,” he says flatly. “Get in the truck.”
I should bristle. He didn’t ask. He told.
But the way he does it—practical, protective, completely unbothered by whether I’ll say yes—makes something inside me unclench. Like I’m allowed to be taken care of for twenty minutes, whether I think I deserve it or not.
“I have soup,” I lie.
“What kind?”
“Canned.”
“Show me.”
I blink. “Show you?”
“Yeah.”
I cross my arms tighter. “No.”
