"I improvised," I snap, feeling that familiar defensive spike in my chest. "The hammer head fell off."
"Because it’s a piece of junk." He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. His gaze is uncomfortably intense, dissecting me. "Why are you here, Avery?"
"I told you. I live here."
"No. Why areyouhere?" He gestures vaguely to the window, to the storm raging outside. "City girl like you. You hold a hammer like it’s going to bite you. You flinch when the wind howls. You’rescared of the dark, and you’re living in the darkest part of the valley."
I look down into the black coffee. Steam swirls up, dampening my eyelashes. "It was the only thing I’ve ever truly owned," I whisper.
"There are cheap apartments in town. Safer ones. With landlords who fix the heat."
"I don't want an apartment." I look up at him, gripping the mug tighter. "I want... mine. I wanted something that was mine."
Something flickers in his eyes. A shift. He lowers his mug slowly.
"Yours," he repeats, the word rolling around his mouth like he’s tasting it.
"I grew up in the system," I say, the words tumbling out. "Foster homes. Six of them by the time I was twelve. I never had a room that didn't belong to someone else’s kid before I got there. I never had a key that I got to keep."
The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
Oliver doesn't offer pity. He doesn't give me the sad tilt of the head social workers used to give. He just watches me, his expression unreadable, carved from granite.
"So you bought a wreck on the edge of Gunnar land," he says quietly.
"I inherited this home," I correct him, thinking of the biological uncle I never met. "It's mine. And I’m going to fix it."
"Not with that toolkit, you aren't."
He steps closer, and the air in the room seems to compress. He sits on the heavy wooden coffee table directly in front of me, knees spreading wide, invading my space. He’s so close I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the coarse texture of his beard.
"Give me your foot."
I blink. "What?"
"The ankle. Give it here."
I hesitate, then slowly uncurl one leg, extending it toward him. He takes my foot in his hand. His palm is rough, calloused, warm and dry. Fingers wrap easily around my ankle. My foot looks impossibly small in his grasp.
Oxygen catches in my throat as he probes the joint with his thumb. His touch is firm, clinical, but my body reacts like he just ran a live wire up my leg. Heat races down my spine, settling heavy and liquid in my stomach.
"It’s not broken," he says, his voice dropping an octave. He rotates my foot gently. I wince, a small hiss escaping my teeth.
His eyes snap to mine instantly. "Hurts?"
"A little."
"Sprain. Maybe a minor tear." He keeps holding my foot, thumb brushing over the delicate skin of my arch. Distracting. Overwhelming. "You’re lucky you didn't snap it on the rocks. The trail up to your place is a death trap in this ice."
"I noticed," I mutter.
He doesn't let go. He keeps his hand there, anchoring me to him. "You shouldn't be up here alone, Little Bird."
"I’m not a bird," I whisper. "And I can take care of myself."
"Clearly," he says, dry and sarcastic. "That’s why you were turning blue when I found you."
"I would have figured it out."
