Naturally, I knock.
Once.
Twice.
The door opens just enough for his face to appear. Grease on his hands. Scowl firmly in place. Dark eyes already irritated.
“What.”
It’s not a question.
“My studio’s flooding,” I say, breathless and cheerful out of spite. “Do you have a wrench?”
“No.”
I blink. “No?”
“No.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m busy.”
I peer past him into the workshop. He’s standing beside an engine that looks halfway disassembled, tools spread with military precision across the workbench. Sparks of light catch in his dark hair. His shoulders fill the doorway like a warning.
“You don’t look busy,” I say lightly.
His jaw tightens. “You don’t look welcome.”
“Wow,” I say. “And here I thought small towns were friendly.”
“They are. I’m not.”
I cross my arms, water squelching in my boots. “It’s a pipe. I just need a wrench.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I help you once, you’ll keep asking.”
“I will not.”
“You already did.”
“That was literally ten seconds ago.”
He sighs like I’m a personal inconvenience fate has dropped at his feet. He reaches behind him, grabs a wrench from the wall, and thrusts it toward me without meeting my eyes.
“Take it. Fix it. Bring it back.”
I grab it. Our fingers brush.
Electric.
Annoying.
Something in my chest flutters before I can stop it.
