Good.
I know how to handle annoying.
It’s everything else that’s the problem.
We finish the rest of the inventory in relative silence, the only sounds the soft beats and occasional rustle of cardboard. I keep catching myself watching him when he's not looking, the way his brow furrows in concentration, how his hands—strong but surprisingly careful—handle the delicate older books.
By the time we're done, it's nearly midnight. Mr. Abernathy usually closes up, but tonight he trusted me with the keys. I feel a strange sense of pride in that, mixed with the weight of responsibility.
“We’re all done,” I announce.
“I should probably get going,” Troy says, wiping dust from his hands onto his jeans.
I nod, already reaching for my coat. “Thanks for the help. And the donuts.”
“Anytime, Greer.” He smiles, and it's not his usual smirk. It's something softer. I hate how much I notice the difference.
Outside, the night air hits my face, cold and refreshing after hours in the stuffy backroom. I lock the door behind us, double-checking it out of habit.
“My car's just around the corner,” Troy says. “I can drive you home.”
I hesitate. The logical part of my brain says walking would be stupid when it's this cold and this late. But the stubborn part—the part that's kept me safe all these years—resists.
“I can walk. I do it all the time.”
“At midnight? Alone?” He raises an eyebrow. “Come on. It's not a big deal.”
I sigh, relenting. “Fine.”
His car is warm inside, the heater already blasting right away. It smells like him—a mix of wood andmanliness,something I can't quite place. Something distinctly Troy. I try not to notice, just like I try not to notice how my own apartment never feels this warm, no matter how high I crank the heat.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the streets empty and quiet. Troy keeps his eyes on the road, but I can tell he's thinking about something. His fingers tap an irregular rhythm on the steering wheel.
“What?” I finally say.
He glances over. “What—what?”
“You're being weird. Quieter than usual. It’s…unnerving.”
He shrugs. “Just thinking.”
“Wow. That’s a first.”
He laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “You know, you use humor as a defense mechanism just as much as I do.”
That catches me off guard. I stare at him. “I don't?—”
“You do,” he says, not unkindly. “You just do it differently. I go big, loud, over-the-top. You go sharp, sarcastic, push people away before they can get close.”
I cross my arms. “Are you psychoanalyzing me right now? Because I didn't sign up for that.”
“Not you. Just... patterns. I recognize them because I do the same thing.”
We stop at a red light, the glow casting shadows across his face. He looks different somehow. Tired. Older.
“What's going on with you tonight?” I ask, curiosity winning out over my usual defenses.
He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then, just as the light turns green.
