“So,” he says, casual like the world isn’t slanting, “about my winnings.”
“Your cookies,” I say, for the cameras that no longer exist. “And the…hour.”
He nods once, all the joking sluicing off his face for something steadier. “Tonight? After close? If you’re not—”
“I was hoping for tomorrow, but tonight works,” I say, as if my mouth has separated from my central nervous system and run off with my best impulses. “Seven thirty.”
“Perfect.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small paper bag. “Peace offering.”
“I thought the coffees were—” I open it and pause. Inside are two brand-new pairs of work gloves. One small, one large. Both soft, broken-in, like someone took the time to oil the leather last night while thinking about my hands.
“I like my book witch with skin,” he says with a shrug, laughing at his own chivalry before it can embarrass him. “Also, Sawyer said to tell you he’ll come up on Wednesday to look at the lantern frame.”
I swallow past the feeling gathering in my throat. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me for gloves.”
“For not making a joke when the mics were on,” I say. “For choosing the boring, honest answer.”
His mouth does something that isn't a smile, yet is heading that way. “Trying out this whole ‘man’ thing.”
“How’s it going?”
He glances down at my wrist. The flour streak is still there despite my early morning shower (don’t ask me, Daisy’s work is witchcraft). Without thinking, he reaches out and rubs at it with his thumb. The touch is light. The charge is not. And the damn thing disappears. Not even super flour is immune to his charm.
“Better,” he says, thumb withdrawing like he can feel the scaling heat he left in his wake.
We stand in the quiet hum of the shop, two coffees between us like a treaty, two pairs of gloves like a dare, and the after-hours hour hovering overhead like a promise I wrote myself and then forgot to deny.
A kid barrels in with a dollar and a mission to buy a bookmark with a dragon on it. We both jump, ridiculous and guilty, and the moment slides toward sensible again with a small, shamed laugh from my rib cage.
“Seven thirty,” he says, backing toward the door before we both make choices we can’t fold back up. “I’ll bring…something.”
“Bring your inside voice,” I say. “It’s a library-adjacent event.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The bell sings, and he’s gone.
I look down at the gloves in my hands and only realize I’ve been smiling like a fool when Daisy appears at my shoulder and whispers, “Oh, this is catastrophic.”
“It’s not—”
“Bailey,” she says, head tipped, eyes kind, voice relentless. “Honey, you’re already in the lighthouse. You might as well turn on the light.”
I make a face at her. She makes one back. We’re both twelve and thirty and ancient in the way women are when they stand behind counters and decide where their lives will go and who will be allowed to walk in.
At six, I flip the sign to CLOSED.
One minute later, the group chat lights up like a bonfire.
Lila:Need me to deliver a bodyguard/babysitter/baked goods?
Ivy:I wrote you a playlist titled “Tea & Tension.” Do not waste it.
Me:If I don’t respond, I was kidnapped.
Daisy:You’re welcome.
