“That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s a warning.”
“For what?”
He tightens his jaw.
“Just don’t,” he says.
And that’s it. No elaboration. No context. Nothing. Which somehow makes it worse.
I watch him for a moment longer than I should. Then I nod slowly.
“Okay,” I say. “That was unsettling.”
“Good.”
He goes back to work like the conversation is over. But mine isn’t. Not even close. I almost don’t go ask him. Almost. I stand outside the mechanic shop for a full minute, staring at the open garage like it’s going to give me an easier option if I wait long enough. It doesn’t.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Back door wins.”
I step inside. Archer is under a vehicle again. Of course he is. He slides out slowly when I speak, wiping his hands with the same towel he always seems to have nearby like he lives in a perpetual state of mechanical readiness.
“Why are you here again?”
I ignore the tone.
“My back door is still terrible.”
That earns a pause.
Then: “Still?”
“Yes.”
I cross my arms. “Apparently you’re not a foolproof handyman.”
Another pause. Slightly longer. Then he sits up fully, studying me like I’ve presented a problem he already didn’t want to deal with the first time.
“I never claimed to be.”
He doesn’t say anything else as he heads in the direction of my shop. We walk back in silence again. I’m starting to realize this is a pattern. A frustrating one.
Inside the bookstore, he goes straight to the door, examines it, tests the frame, presses along the edges. I hover nearby, watching him work. It’s hard not to notice how focused he is when he actually commits to something. Everything else disappears. There’s no hesitation, no wasted movement.
Just control. Efficiency. It’s… distracting.
“You always this grumpy when you fix things?” I ask.
“No.”
“That felt like a lie.”
He kneels and adjusts the frame slightly, testing alignment again.
“What did you do to it after I left?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I respond, far too quickly.
