“That sounds reckless.”
“That sounds like my entire personality.”
Something shifts in his expression. Not soft. Not quite a smile. But something less sharp.
I hand him the wrench. “Thank you.”
He takes it. Our fingers brush again. This time neither of us pulls away right away.
“You owe me,” he says.
I laugh. “For thirty seconds of work?”
“Cookies,” he says. “Or something.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you’ll expect more.”
He smirks. It’s quick. Dangerous. “I already do, Firefly.”
My breath stutters.
“Don’t call me that.”
“You glow when you’re mad.”
“I do not glow.”
“You’re glowing.”
I step closer without thinking. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re loud.”
“Grumpy.”
“Messy.”
“Hot.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
The air thickens.
For one breathless moment, it feels like he might step into me. Like he might take control of the space, the conversation, the tension snapping between us like a live wire.
Instead, he steps back.
“Sink’s fixed,” he says roughly. “Don’t break it again.”
“I make no promises.”
He turns for the door.
