Before either of us could figure out how to respond to that loaded observation, he was checking his watch and making apologetic noises about dinner plans. We escaped toward the dairy section with our faces probably red enough to power the store's lighting.
“Does everyone in this town moonlight as a fortune cookie writer?” Nate muttered once we were out of earshot.
“That's just Mr. Daniels. He thinks everything is a metaphor for something else. Occupational hazard of teaching literature for thirty years.”
“Right. And here I thought Martha was the town's designated keeper of everyone's business.”
“Oh, she is. But Mr. Daniels is more subtle about it. He prefers literary analysis to direct interrogation.”
We finished the shopping in comfortable efficiency, Nate checking items off his list with the satisfaction of someone who enjoyed completing tasks. The mysterious good cheese turned out to be a sharp cheddar that the deli counter clerk recommended with religious fervor. By the time we loaded everything into my truck, the sun was starting to sink toward
“Thanks,” Nate said as we pulled into his parents' driveway. “For the rescue, the local guidance, the protection from Martha's interrogation techniques. I owe you one.”
“You don't owe me anything,” I said, and meant it. “Just... maybe next time check the fluid levels before you borrow your dad's car?”
“Next time I'm walking,” he said with a grin that made my chest do stupid things. “Or investing in a really good pair of hiking boots.”
He gathered his groceries and paused with his hand on the door handle, like he was working up the courage to say something that mattered.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he said finally. “About being friends. I know things are... complicated. Between us. But I'd like to try, if you're willing.”
The honesty in his voice made my throat tight with emotions I wasn't ready to name. Because friendship wasn't what my wolf wanted, wasn't what the human part of me craved either. But maybe it was what we needed, at least for now. Maybe it was a place to start rebuilding something that could survive whatever came next.
“Yeah,” I said, voice rougher than I'd intended. “I'd like that too.”
His smile was soft around the edges, warm and hopeful and exactly like the one I'd been carrying in my memory for six years.
“I'll see you tomorrow then? For the great radiator hose installation?”
“Bright and early. Try not to break anything else between now and then.”
“No promises,” he said, and climbed out of the truck with his arms full of groceries and his face bright with something that looked like happiness.
I sat in the driveway for a long moment after he disappeared into the house, my wolf content in ways he hadn't been since Nate had walked back into our lives. Because this was good, this easy warmth between us. This felt like something we could build on, something that might actually last.
17
UNDER THE HOOD
NATE
Iwalked toward Gideon's garage, keys to Dad's sedan jangling in my pocket like a promise that today wouldn't end in automotive disaster. The converted barn looked exactly like what it was—weathered siding and oil-stained concrete that had seen better decades but still had good bones underneath.
I could hear voices before I reached the open bay doors, the low rumble of conversation punctuated by the occasional clank of metal on metal and what sounded suspiciously like someone singing along to classic rock. My steps slowed involuntarily, because there was something about approaching Evan in his element that made my stomach do acrobatic routines worthy of a gold medal.
Probably because his element involved getting his hands dirty and looking stupidly competent while doing it.
I paused at the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the garage's dim interior. Evan was bent over Dad's car like he was performing surgery, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms thatdefinitely hadn't looked like that when we were eighteen. The past six years had been kind to him in ways that made my brain short-circuit and my mouth go dry.
When had he gotten so... substantial?
His shoulders moved under his flannel shirt as he worked, muscles shifting in ways that suggested he'd been doing more than just pushing pencils and attending town council meetings. The sight was hypnotic, educational, and probably illegal in several conservative states.
I was definitely staring. Definitely drooling, at least metaphorically. Definitely having thoughts that had no business existing in a friendship that was already complicated enough without adding sexual tension to the mix.
“You planning to stand there all morning, or are you actually coming in?”
The voice wasn't Gideon's—too young, too amused, carrying the weight of someone who'd caught me red-handed in my appreciation of Evan's mechanical prowess. I looked up to find a stocky guy with a buzz cut and permanently grease-stained hands grinning at me from where he was bent over the engine of what looked like a vintage Camaro.
