I hold her gaze as I pull my hand back and look at my thumb like the paint is evidence.
“You missed a spot,” I say.
She blinks like she forgot how.
Then she exhales, shaky. “You came here to fix wiring.”
“I am fixing wiring,” I say, calm. “This is… quality control.”
She swats at my arm, but it’s weak. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re a hazard,” I counter. “Saxon’s right. Leaving you unsupervised with power tools is a crime.”
Her mouth opens. “Excuse you?—”
I cut her off by stepping back, turning away, and going to my tool bag like I’m not affected at all.
It’s a lie.
I can still feel her warmth where my thumb touched her skin.
Behind me, she mutters, “As if being neighbors wasn’t close enough.”
I grin to myself without letting her see it.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling out wire cutters. “Guess we’ll have to suffer through close quarters for the foreseeable future.”
She makes a sound—half annoyed, half pleased.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m not paying you.”
I glance back over my shoulder. “I already told you the price.”
Her eyes narrow. “Cookies.”
“Cookies,” I confirm.
She points at me like she’s making a vow. “You’re getting the driest, most flavorless cookies in the history of baked goods.”
“Liar,” I say, returning to the panel. “You don’t have it in you.”
“I do,” she insists. “I have darkness. It’s just… pastel.”
That makes me laugh again, and it comes out warmer than I expect.
Ember goes still at the sound, like she’s caught something rare. Like she’s collecting proof that I’m not as shut down as I pretend.
Her gaze lingers on me—on my hands, on the set of my shoulders, on the way I work like I’m used to fixing things that can break people.
“You know,” she says lightly, “if you keep showing up at my door first thing in the morning, people are going to talk.”
“They already are,” I answer without looking up.
Her voice dips. “Do you care?”
I cut the damaged splice and start stripping fresh wire, fingers steady.
Then I look up.
