She laughs quietly. One of those unexpected laughs that makes the air shift a little, like she’s trying to convince herself this isn’t awkward. “I bet you’d make an excellent lumberjack. Or a serial killer. Hard to tell sometimes.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Which one am I?”
“You’re… precise,” she hedges. “Methodical. Deadly efficient. But also… oddly handsome when you work.”
I glance up, just for a second. Her eyes are on me — too bright, too focused. “That last part is irrelevant,” I mutter.
She grins, leaning back just a bit, hands on her hips. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. I like irrelevant.”
I swing at another log, splitting it cleanly, then set the axe down. She’s not moving yet. Watching me, waiting.
“You’re intimidating,” she says suddenly.
I pause. “I am not.”
“Yeah, you are,” she insists, shrugging like it’s the most straightforward fact in the world. “Lumberjack in action, all serious jawlines and focus. I’m—well—I’m chaotic, obviously.”
I glance at her, taking in the oversized sweater, the boots, the wild brown hair. “You’re… noisy,” I say flatly.
“Exactly,” she grins. “See? You get me already.”
I shake my head. “I don’t get anyone.”
She huffs. “Sure. Don’t get me, but watch me fumble with an axe like I might break myself. Makes total sense.”
When the last log splits, I straighten, shoulders tight, and jerk my chin toward the porch.
“I’ll help you carry it in.”
She flinches slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that level of… intention.
“You don’t—” she starts, voice sharp, half-protesting.
But I’m already holding out a few pieces toward her. She hesitates, then steps closer and reaches for them. Our fingers brush, it’s a quick, warm drag of skin against skin.
Soft.
Heated.
Electric.
She freezes mid-movement, eyes wide, and I catch the hitch in her breath. Like the world just stopped for a heartbeat, and neither of us is sure what to do with it.
She swallows, tries to rearrange her stance, and I can feel her assessing me like she’s trying to decide if I’m safe. Or dangerous. Or just… here.
I shift my gaze away first. It’s easier. Safer.
I gather the remaining logs, stride up the steps, muscles working automatically, mind half-occupied by her. By the sway of her sweater, the way her hair keeps falling into her eyes, the way she’swatching me as if I might vanish before she can claim any control over the situation.
I set the pile down by the door without ceremony.
She scrambles after me, awkward, clutching the logs she’s already got, trying to balance her chaos with the uncomfortable tension between us.
Her fingers brush mine again. It’s accidental, fleeting, and somehow deliberate all at once, and I don’t look down, don’t allow the moment to be acknowledged more than it is.
I’m halfway down the stairs when she calls, sharp and teasing but with an edge of real hope: “Hey! You still get that coffee!”
I stop. Don’t turn. Don’t look. Keep the distance.
