“It's a radiator hose, Nate. Not rocket surgery.”
“Rocket surgery?”
“You know what I meant.”
That earned me a laugh. The sound went straight to my chest, settling into places that had been cold for longer than I cared to admit.
“Okay,” he said, grabbing a notebook and what looked like a shopping list from the passenger seat. “But I'm buying you coffee or lunch or something. Hazard pay for dealing with my automotive incompetence.”
“Deal.”
We transferred his stuff to my truck, and I tried not to notice how his scent filled the cab immediately—pine and rain and something indefinably warm that my wolf recognized on a molecular level. Tried not to think about how right it felt to have him in my space again, even if it was just because his car had decided to stage a mechanical rebellion.
“So,” Nate said as we pulled back onto the road, “what's the verdict? Am I looking at massive repair bills that'll force me to sell a kidney?”
“Radiator hose runs about fifteen bucks. Labor's free if you don't mind me doing it in Gideon's garage instead of taking it to the official shop.”
“Free?”
“Friends help friends,” I said, the words coming out more careful than I'd intended. Because that's what we were doing, wasn't it? Figuring out how to be friends again, how to exist in the same space without the weight of history crushing us both.
“Friends,” Nate repeated, like he was testing the word. “Yeah. I'd like that.”
The simplicity of it hit me sideways. No demands, no expectations, just the acknowledgment that maybe we could build something new from the wreckage of what we'd lost. Maybe friendship was enough, even if my wolf whined softly at the limitations that word implied.
“Your dad give you a long list?” I asked, because talking about grocery shopping was safer than examining the warmth spreading through my chest.
“The usual suspects. Milk, bread, the fancy coffee Mom likes that costs twice as much as the regular stuff but apparently makes her happy enough that it's worth Dad's grumbling about the price.” He consulted his notebook. “Oh, and something called 'good cheese' with no further specifications, which I'm pretty sure is a test designed to prove I'm still the same clueless kid who left town six years ago.”
“Good cheese is whatever Martha's pushing at the deli counter this week. She's got opinions about cheese that border on religious fervor.”
“See? This is why I need a local guide. Six years in Chicago and I've apparently forgotten how to navigate small-town social dynamics.”
“It's like riding a bike. Except the bike is made of gossip and everyone's watching to see if you crash.”
That got me another laugh, and I found myself driving just a little slower than necessary, stretching out the time before we'd have to return to being careful around each other. Because this was easy, this casual conversation that felt like slipping into clothes that fit perfectly. This felt like coming home to something I'd forgotten I was missing.
The grocery store was busier than usual for a weekday afternoon, full of people stocking up before the weather turned and made even short trips into town feel like expeditions. Nate grabbed a cart and consulted his list like he was planning a military operation.
“Okay, standard stuff first, then we tackle the mysterious cheese situation,” he said, and there was something endearing about the way he approached grocery shopping like a puzzle to be solved rather than a chore to be endured.
I found myself falling into step beside him, offering commentary on local preferences and steering him away from the bread that looked good but went stale in twelve hours. It felt domestic in ways that made my chest tight, like we were just two people doing normal couple things instead of... whatever we actually were.
“Well, if it isn't two of my former star pupils!”
Mr. Daniels' voice carried across the produce section, and I turned to find our old English teacher approaching with a shopping basket and the same enthusiastic smile that had made Shakespeare tolerable for hormone-addled teenagers.
“Mr. Daniels,” I said, because good manners had been drilled into me since birth. “How are you?”
“Can't complain. Retirement's been treating me well—more time for fishing, less time grading essays about why Hamlet was 'totally emo.'” His eyes twinkled as they landed on Nate. “And look who the wind blew back to town. Nathaniel Harrington, in the flesh. How's that photography career treating you?”
“Still working on it,” Nate said with a self-deprecating smile that didn't quite hide the wince. “Turns out the world has a lot of photographers and not quite as many people willing to pay them.”
“Ah, the artist's dilemma. Well, you always had talent. Sometimes timing is just as important as skill.” Mr. Daniels shifted his attention between us with the shrewd observation skills that had made him legendary for catching cheating students. “You know, it's funny seeing you two together again. I always wondered if you'd keep in touch after graduation.”
“Life got complicated,” I said, which was both true and completely inadequate.
“It has a way of doing that. But here you are, back where it all started.” Mr. Daniels' smile was knowing without being intrusive. “Sometimes the best stories are the ones that circle back to their beginning.”
