I cross the distance in seconds, shoving through the bookstore door just as the shelving starts to come down. She’s right under it.
My body reacts on instinct. I hit the unit from the side, bracing it with everything I’ve got, forcing it upright before it can crush her. Too close. Way too close.
She scrambles back, eyes wide, and I steady the shelf, locking it into place.
The urge to check her—to make sure she’s not hurt—hits hard. I shove it down. She’s human. Fragile.
Mine.
I step back before that thought can take root any deeper.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice unsteady.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I do, I might not stop. Instead, I assess the building. The damage. The risks. Anything to focus on that isn’t her.
“This place isn’t safe,” I say.
It comes out harsher than I intend. She pushes back—of course she does. There’s steel under that uncertainty, something stubborn that my tiger immediately notices. Good. Strong.
Mine.
I shut that down hard. She doesn’t understand what she’s dealing with. The building. The town. Me.
When she says she bought it, something in my chest hurts. That means she’s staying.
That means?—
No. I cut the thought off before it can spiral.
“I’ll get someone to look at it,” I say instead.
It’s the safest thing I can offer. The most distance I can maintain. She asks my name. I hesitate. Because giving it feels like giving something else, too.
“…Archer.”
Then I leave. I have to. Because every second I stay in that building, every breath I take near her, makes it harder to remember why I shouldn’t.
I don’t go back right away. I tell myself I will. That I’ll give it an hour, maybe two, let the edge of the instinct wear off before I put myself anywhere near her again. It’s a lie I recognize even as I think it. Because no matter how far I run, no matter how long I stay away, the pull doesn’t fade.
It shifts. It settles into something constant, low and insistent, like a second heartbeat under my skin. She’s there.
Mine.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face as I step into the garage again.
“Everything good?” Mike asks, glancing up from the engine he’s working on.
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
Another lie.
I grab a wrench and force myself back under the truck I’d been working on earlier. The familiar rhythm should help—tighten, adjust, check—but my focus is shot. Every sound from next door cuts through everything else. A box being set down. Footsteps. The faint scrape of wood against the floor.
She’s moving around inside that building like it’s not one wrong step away from collapsing. My jaw tightens. Human. Fragile. Unaware. I tighten the bolt harder than necessary, the metal creaking under the pressure.
“Easy,” Mike mutters. “You trying to break it?”
I release the tension immediately, forcing my grip to loosen.
