“I knocked.”
“You did not.”
“Knocking’s implied when you’re this charming.”
She groans. “You’re impossible.”
“Consistent,” I say, crouching beside her. “Need help?”
She opens her mouth—probably to tell me no—but the wind cuts her off, sending a fresh spray of bay air across the dock. The edges of the boxes flap, threatening to scatter.
“Fine,” she mutters. “But only because you have longer arms.”
“Finally, my best feature gets recognized.”
She gives me a look, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Pretty sure your best feature is ego.”
“Close second,” I say. “Right behind my self-awareness.”
“Which is nonexistent.”
“Exactly.”
Her laugh slips out before she can stop it. That sound—God, that sound—hits me square in the chest. I’ll take it over applause, over cheers, over the roar of a stadium any day.
We haul the boxes into the shop just as the first drops of rain hit. The air smells like paper and storms, like nostalgia and maybe-love. She pushes a strand of hair from her face and looks around the room, sighing. “Half these books are soaked.”
“Then we’ll dry them,” I say.
“You say that like it’s simple.”
“It is,” I say, finding a towel. “Watch.”
I pick up the top book and start gently patting the pages dry.
She folds her arms. “That’s not how paper works.”
“It’s working fine.”
“You’re smearing the ink.”
“It’s abstract now.”
She groans again, snatching the towel from my hand. “Give me that.”
“Bossy.”
“Competent,” she corrects, kneeling to show me the right way—spreading the books slightly open, fanning the pages, spacing them apart. Her voice softens as she explains. “You treat it gently, or it falls apart. Paper remembers roughness.”
I get the feeling she’s not talking about paper anymore.
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”
Her eyes flick to mine, then away, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” I say. “But you’re right.”
The rain gets heavier, drumming on the roof like a heartbeat gone wild. Thunder rolls low, steady. She glances toward the window. “We should close up.”
