"You're welcome, by the way."
I sink into the heated seat of the Audi and press my palms against my eyes. "For what? Publicly humiliating me?"
"For confirming that your lion is absolutely, catastrophically into you." Robin pulls out of the parking lot of the library, right next to my Prius, sounding unreasonably pleased with himself. "Every time I touched you, he looked like he wanted to rip my arms off. It was beautiful."
"Robin—"
"The hair touch? Gold. The collar fix? Platinum. When I called you 'our Toby'?" He makes a chef's kiss gesture. "I thought he was going to shift right there in the garage."
I groan. "You're the worst."
"I'm the best and you love me." He reaches over and pats my knee. "Now you know he's serious. You're welcome."
The thing is, he's not wrong. I didn't notice Knox's reactions because I was too busy being mortified, but Robin notices everything. If he says Knox was ready to commit murder over a hair ruffle, I believe him.
I just don't know what to do with that information.
Robin drops me at the library with a cheerful "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" which leaves my options concerningly wide open. I wave him off and push through the front doors, already shifting into work mode.
The library is quiet in that late-afternoon way — the morning rush of retirees and stay-at-home parents long gone, the after-school chaos not yet arrived. Luis waves from the circulation desk, and I detour to check in.
"How's it looking for the workshop?"
"Hey, welcome back. Hope lunch was good. Always nice to see Robin. Workshop, yes, six confirmed, two maybes." He slides a sign-up sheet across the counter. "Also, Margaret wants to see you."
Of course she does.
"Did she say what about?"
"Budget." Luis gives me a sympathetic look. "Something about the story hour snack allocation being 'excessive.'"
Robin's rainbow cupcakes. She's going after Robin's rainbow cupcakes.
"I'll handle it after the workshop," I say, taking the sign-up sheet. "If I survive."
The teen room is my favorite space in the library. It's got good natural light, comfortable seating that isn't aggressively institutional, and bookshelves organized by vibe rather than Dewey Decimal — "Dark and Twisty," "Found Family," "Kissing Books," "Absolutely Unhinged." I fought Margaret for six months to get that approved.
I start setting up for the workshop, arranging chairs in a circle, pulling out the writing prompts I prepped last week. Unreliable narrators. First person perspective. How the story changes depending on who's telling it.
My brain keeps sliding sideways.
Knox's hands on the wrench, knuckles white. The way he didn't say a single word the entire time Robin and I were there. The weight of his attention, even when I wasn't looking at him — I could feel it, like standing too close to a space heater.
"Mr. Toby?"
I blink. Jade is standing in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, watching me with the particular wariness of a teenager who's caught an adult spacing out.
"Hey, Jade. You're early."
"Mom had a thing." She drops into her usual seat — back corner, clear sightline to the door. "You okay? You look tired."
"Late night." I shuffle the prompt cards, trying to focus. "How's the story coming?"
Jade's been working on a fantasy novel for three months now. It's about a girl who discovers she's the secret heir to a magical kingdom, which isn't exactly groundbreaking, but her prose is sharp and her characters feel real. She's the reason I keep fighting for these workshops.
"Stuck," she admits. "My protagonist keeps making stupid decisions and I don't know how to fix it."
"Maybe the stupid decisions are the point."
