“Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“I fixed it. Well enough that it closed. I didn’t install a new door. I didn’t install new molding. Just because it closes… closed… doesn’t mean it’s not still old. And rickety. Stop. Forcing. The door.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re splitting semantic hairs now?”
“Are we?”
He tightens something near the hinge, then pauses.
“You should replace this,” he says.
“I don’t have the budget for ‘replace everything that bothers me.’”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It sounded like it.”
He exhales once through his nose.
“You asked for help,” he reminds me.
“I did,” I admit. “And I appreciate it.”
“Don’t.”
I narrow my eyes. “You really hate gratitude.”
“I hate expectations.”
“That feels like a therapy problem.”
He finally looks at me. It’s brief. But sharp.
“Most things are,” he says.
The answer throws me off for half a second. Then I recover.
“You’re impossible to read, you know that?”
“That’s intentional.”
“Comforting.”
He goes back to the lock mechanism. For a while, we work in silence. Not peaceful silence. Just… loaded.
Every movement in the small back room feels more noticeable because of how close he is. The space is tight enough that when he shifts position, I have to adjust mine. Which is annoying. And something else I’m not going to name.
“People in town act like you’re important,” I say after a while.
He pauses. Just barely.
“Don’t start that again,” he says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you need.”
