He kept his expression neutral, but something ugly coiled tight in his chest.
“I came to repair the door,” he said, lifting his tools to show her.
Her look of surprise annoyed him. She should expect him to show up. She should expect him to fix things in her life. “You didn’t call ahead,” she said.
Another sound from the back of the house, and Grace looked over her shoulder toward the kitchen.
Luke felt a wave of jealousy, hot and stupid and irrational, crashing into him.
He forced his shoulders to stay loose, his stance open, even as his thoughts raced ahead, dark and territorial and deeply inconvenient.
“You’ve got company,” he said. He had intended to sound casual, but he missed the mark.
Grace didn’t answer right away.
And that pause—that single, measured pause—did more damage than a shouted confession ever could.
So much for things sliding back into place.
So much for knowing her.
Luke waited.
Grace didn’t fill the silence.
The hammering started again behind her—three solid strikes, measured and sure. The sound scraped against Luke’s nerves in a way he didn’t like.
“Well,” he said, biting out the word, “looks like you’ve got it handled.”
Grace’s eyes stayed on his. Steady. Unapologetic.
“I do,” she said.
No explanation. No reassurance. No scrambling to make him comfortable.
Luke nodded once, jaw tight.
“Here,” he said, thrusting the handful of sealant and screws out toward her.
She hesitated—just a beat—then took hold of bundle.
“Thank you,” she said. Polite. Distant. Finished.
The sound of the hammer stopped. Footsteps crossed the kitchen.
Luke didn’t look past her. He didn’t want to see the face he’d already built in his head.
“Lock up tonight,” he said instead. “If anything else happens?—”
“I know how to call the police,” Grace replied calmly.
Luke felt almost physical pain. She wouldn’t be calling Luke. It didn’t even seem to occur to her that if she was in trouble, she should call him.
“Right,” he said. “Of course.”
She didn’t invite him in.
She didn’t ask him to stay.
