She’s out front, sweeping the porch, wearing cut-off shorts and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big. My sweatshirt. She looks up, startled, then wary. “You left this on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” I say. “You wear it better.”
“Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“The thing,” she says, gesturing vaguely. “The charming-your-way-past-boundaries thing.”
“Right.” I step closer, grin crooked.
She laughs despite herself, and that’s all the permission I need to lean against the railing beside her. We stand there, side by side, watching gulls swoop low over the water.
After a while, she says quietly, “About last night…”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t regret it.” She sighs. “But I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Same,” I admit. “Except for the part where I definitely want to do it again.”
Her breath catches. “You really don’t have a filter, do you?”
“Nope. Tried one once. It broke.”
She laughs again, shaking her head, but there’s color high on her cheeks. “You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
She sets the broom aside, facing me fully now. The wind lifts a strand of her hair, and it brushes across her mouth. I have to fist my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out. “You scare me,” she says finally.
“I scareyou?”
She nods. “Because you make me forget how hard I worked to be fine.”
My chest tightens. “Then let me help you remember you can behappyinstead.”
She stares at me, eyes shining, and for a second, it feels like she might step closer. Instead, she whispers, “You say stuff like that, and I don’t stand a chance.”
“Good,” I say, a half smile tugging. “Neither do I.”
We end up spending the afternoon fixing a loose shutter and reorganizing books she swears are alphabetized but clearlyaren’t. She keeps pretending to be annoyed, and I keep pretending I believe her. The air hums between us like a held breath.
At one point, she’s on a small step stool reaching for the top shelf. I move behind her—just to steady it, I tell myself—but my hands find her waist automatically. Warm. Solid. Real. She freezes, glances down over her shoulder, our faces only inches apart.
“Careful,” I murmur. “Wouldn’t want you falling.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Too late.”
It hits like a jolt, the truth in it. I could kiss her again right here, surrounded by books and dust and sunlight, but I don’t. Instead, I ease back, hands sliding away slow enough to feel every heartbeat between us.
She exhales shakily, climbs down, and the look she gives me could burn through brick. “You’re dangerous.”
“Only if you run.”
That night, after she locks up, I help her carry the last box of dry books to her car, ready to take them over to the school. The moon hangs low, swollen and yellow. She sets the box down, dusts her hands off, and turns to me.
“I’m still figuring this out. I spent so many years trying to ignore the fact that you even existed,” she says.
