I laugh. “You? Break something? That’s a first.”
He chuckles, and it’s low and warm, a little embarrassed. “I’m full of surprises.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “Surprising, maybe. But conspicuous too. You can’t exactly walk through the city unnoticed.”
“Yeah,” he admits, “that’s the problem.”
We fall into a rhythm, him carefully straightening notebooks and me teasing him about almost toppling them over. The shop feels small and warm, and the ache in my ankle softens slightly as my attention shifts to him. The bell jingles with every customer, and I catch glimpses of him glancing at the door, I guess he’s here for a reason bigger than stationery.
“You’re limping,” he says suddenly, his voice low, careful.
I wince, shifting my weight. “It’s fine,” I mutter. “Ankle’s still recovering. Work hours got cut, so I’m just… managing.”
He frowns. “Work hours… cut?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Accident. It’s fine. I’ve managed.”
He looks down at his hands, jaw tight. “Right. Managing. Got it.”
I see the tension in him. Something simmering beneath the surface, but he doesn’t say it. There is a pull there, something dangerous and intriguing. My pulse speeds up slightly.
“Photographing local sports now,” he says suddenly, tilting his head. “I saw some of your posts online.”
I blink. “Yeah. Mostly school games, community events. Nothing professional.”
“Sounds like you’ve got an eye for it,” he says. “Good composition and energy… I admire it.”
I smirk. “You like it? You? Hockey star and critic?”
He shrugs. “I watch a lot of hockey. You’d be surprised what a forward notices.”
“Is that an offer or a threat?” I tease, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Maybe both,” he says, chuckling. “Look, if you ever want to photograph the Panthers, I could get you a pass. Home game, front row access.”
I pause, the idea thrilling and intimidating all at once. “Front row, huh? That’s tempting.”
“It’s an experience,” he says, leaning slightly closer. “I think you’d make it work.”
I feel a blush creep up my neck and fiddle with a display of cards. “You’re laying it on thick, aren’t you, Mr. Fraser?”
He grins, but there is seriousness in his eyes. “I mean it. You’re good at what you do. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I swallow, my heart thudding, and look down at the counter. “Thanks,” I murmur.
The bell jingles again, and he steps back. “I should probably go. Don’t want to keep you from work.”
“Sure,” I say.
We linger for a moment, the awkward tension between us palpable. Curiosity, amusement, and something else. Something I can’t name.
“Thanks,” he answers finally. “For the chat. Seeing you is good.”
I tilt my head. “Good? That’s the best you’ve got?”
He flushes then chuckles, and turns for the door. I watch him go, and the bell tinkles one last time, leaving silence behind.
I lean against the counter and exhale. My ankle throbs, my shifts are short, and my life is still in a kind of half-shuffled routine. But Cal Fraser has left something in the air, a pull I can’t ignore.
