Firefly.
She sees too damn much.
I snort, forcing the sound light. “Congratulations,” I say. “You’ve officially diagnosed me with Mountain Man Trauma. Want a medal?”
She doesn’t smile.
“I teach kids,” she says. “You don’t get to deflect me with sarcasm that easily.”
I laugh, short and rough. “You crying under that sink yesterday says otherwise.”
Her chin lifts. “That was plumbing-based trauma.”
I bark out a real laugh before I can stop myself. It slips loose, surprising both of us.
There it is again—that flicker between us. Heat under the cold. Something restless and dangerous that doesn’t belong in daylight conversations or neighborly favors.
She smiles then, small and triumphant. “See? You’re not made of stone.”
“Don’t spread that around,” I say. “I’ve got a reputation.”
She steps closer again. Close enough now that I can smell her—clean soap, paint, something citrusy that doesn’t belong in a mechanic’s yard.
Her gaze drops to my shoulder. To the old scar peeking above my collar where the jacket dips.
“Does it still hurt?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say honestly.
She looks up. “Physically or…?”
I lift an eyebrow. “Bold question for a woman who owes me cookies.”
She exhales, half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re nosy.”
“Curious.”
“Persistent.”
“Caveman,” she says suddenly, tasting the word like it belongs in her mouth.
I stiffen. “Trouble.”
She steps in just a fraction more. My back brushes the worktable behind me. I hadn’t realized I’d moved.
The space between us tightens. Narrows. I’m aware of my height, my weight, the way her eyes flicker when she realizes exactly how close we are. I could take control of this moment. Cage her in with my body. End the questions with something physical she wouldn’t forget.
I want to.
Bad.
Instead, I lean back just enough to breathe.
“Go make art,” I say. “Teach your kids. Flood your studio again.”
She frowns. “That’s it?”
