"That's kind of you."
He shrugged, uncomfortable with the compliment. "It's what you do in a small town. People look out for each other."
They stopped at the market for tea and detergent, then made their way back to the truck. The drive home was quieter than the drive in, but it was a different kind of quiet. Less awkward. More like two people who'd reached some kind of understanding without having to spell it out.
At the cottage, she went to her room to put away her things, and he found himself standing in the kitchen with nothing to do. He could work on the addition. Should work on the addition.
He'd told Tessa last night, when they were sitting by the fire, about the vintage motorcycle restoration shop. Their dream, all three of them. The thing that had kept them in Copper Moon when they could have gone anywhere.
Had watched her face in the firelight as he explained how they'd come here for the Copper Moon Cup and never left. How they'd pooled their money and found a building on Bay Street and spent the past year turning it into something real.
She'd listened like it mattered. Asked questions that showed she was actually paying attention. And when he'd said sometimes the big changes are the right ones, she'd looked at him like he'd handed her something she needed to hear.
He shook his head and grabbed his work gloves from the hook by the back door. Three days. She'd be gone in three days, and his life would go back to normal.
He wasn't sure why that thought didn't feel as good as it should.
By late afternoon, he'd made progress on the framing for the addition and worked out some of the frustration that had been building since yesterday. Physical labor had always been his reset button. When his head got too loud, his hands knew what to do.
He came inside to find Tessa at the stove, stirring something that smelled incredible.
"I thought we agreed you were the guest," he said, leaning against the doorframe.
She glanced over her shoulder. "I changed my mind. You fed me breakfast. It's only fair." She gestured to the pan with her wooden spoon. "Chicken, garlic, pasta. I found everything in your pantry. Hope that's okay."
"It's fine." More than fine. He couldn't remember the last time someone had cooked for him. "Anything you won't eat?"
"No mushrooms, since you're asking."
He almost smiled. "Good. We agree on something."
He washed up at the sink while she plated the food. They sat at the small table, the window open to the evening air, the sound of the water mixing with the clinking of forks on plates. She'd made a salad, too, the cucumber slices arranged in a neat fan, which made him think she was someone who liked order. Control. Things in their proper place.
He understood that. He'd built his whole life around it.
"This is good," he said, and meant it.
"Thank you." She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. "I like cooking. Don't get to do it much. My hours are..." She trailed off, then started again. "Were. My hours were unpredictable."
He heard the correction. The shift from present to past tense. "What do you do?"
She set her fork down, and something in her face went still. "I'm a trauma surgeon. ER. Chicago. I took a leave of absence."
The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples out in every direction. Trauma surgeon. Which meant she'd seen things. Done things. Held lives in her hands and sometimes watched them slip through.
"That's a hard job," he said.
"It is." She picked up her fork again and pushed a piece of chicken across her plate. "I'm here because I couldn't do it anymore. Not right now. Maybe not ever again."
He nodded slowly. "I was an EMT. Back in Missouri. Before I came here."
Her eyes lifted to his, sharp with recognition. "Was?"
"Left it behind. Same reasons, probably." He took a drink of water to buy himself a moment. "I've thought about volunteering with the fire department here. They need people. But I haven't been able to make myself do it yet."
She studied him for a long moment. He waited for the questions, the prodding, the well-meaning advice. Instead, she just nodded.
"I understand that," she said. "Sometimes you need distance before you can go back."
