“You want me to fix it.”
“Yes.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Then he sits up fully, studying me in that same infuriatingly quiet way he always does. Like he’s weighing the request against something I can’t see.
“I’m busy,” he says finally.
I gesture around the garage. “So am I.”
That earns a faint exhale. Not quite a laugh. Not quite irritation. Something in between. He stands, grabbing a towel and wiping his hands more thoroughly now.
“When?” he asks.
“Now would be great,” I say. “Before it falls off entirely.”
His eyes flicker briefly—just a second—like he’s considering refusing out of principle alone. Then he sighs.
“Fine.”
Relief hits hard.
“Thank you,” I say quickly.
“Don’t,” he replies immediately.
“Don’t… thank you?”
“Don’t assume this means anything.”
I narrow my eyes. “It means my door gets fixed.”
He is silent. Which is basically his version of agreement. We walk back to the bookstore in silence. It should feel awkward. It does.
But there’s something else underneath it. Something that makes the silence feel… full instead of empty. I don’t like that. At all.
Inside, he takes one look at the door and immediately starts assessing it without speaking. He runs his hand along the frame, tests the hinge alignment, shifts the wood slightly.
“You’ve been forcing this closed,” he says.
“Yes.”
“That’s why it’s worse.”
“I noticed.”
He shoots me a look. “Do you always fix things by making them worse first?”
“Only the important ones,” I say.
That earns another one of those almost-reactions from him. Not quite amusement. Not quite frustration.
He starts working. The space is small. Too small. I realize it immediately.
Every movement he makes puts him closer to me, closer than he’s ever been outside of emergencies. The air feels tighter. More aware.
I lean against the counter, trying not to notice how much attention my body is paying to his presence.
“You’ve got a habit of not explaining things,” I say after a while.
