“Don’t hover.”
He swallowed. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
He stepped closer, frustration and something else twisting in his chest. “I’m trying to help. That’s all.”
“Then let me do things my way.”
His expression tightened, a small shift but enough to betray something he didn’t say.
She saw it. Softened. Stepped closer.
“Noah,” she whispered. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”
He looked down at her — at the paint on her wrist, the dust in her hair, the stubborn hope in her eyes.
“I don’t want to fight either,” he said.
They stood there, inches apart, breathing the same air, tension thick enough to touch.
Avery’s gaze flicked to his mouth. Just long enough to undo him.
His hand rose, brushing her jaw, and she leaned in, drawn toward him like she couldn’t help it.
Her elbow clipped the worktable, knocking a small tin of screws to the floor in a sharp rattle.
Avery jerked back, cheeks flushing as she dropped to a crouch, fumbling to gather the scattered screws with unsteady hands.
Rook stood frozen.
His breath caught somewhere between his ribs. His hand hovered uselessly in the air where her jaw had been a second earlier. His pulse thudded hard, not from the near-moment itself, but from the way she pulled away, fast, flustered, pretending nothing had happened.
He curled his fingers into a fist, grounding himself. His shoulders tightened, the urge to reach for her warring with the knowledge that she clearly needed space. He shifted his weight, jaw working, trying to steady the rush of emotion that had blindsided him.
Avery muttered, “Get it together,” scooping the last screws into her palm. She shoved them back into the tin, stood too quickly, and nearly dropped it again. Her movements were rushed, unfocused, a clear attempt to regain control.
Rook watched her, chest tight, every instinct telling him to step in, to help, to say something, but he didn’t. He stayed still, letting her have the room she was scrambling to reclaim.
She grabbed the paintbrush like it was a lifeline and turned toward the trim with forced concentration.
“I should… uh…this trim isn’t going to paint itself,” she said, her voice too bright, too quick.
The moment thinned out, fragile and trembling, like it wasn’t sure what it had almost become.
Rook let his hand fall, fingers curling against his palm. His jaw tightened, pulse still thudding in a way he couldn’t quite steady. He didn’t move toward her, didn’t say anything, just watched her pretend the trim needed her full attention while her hands shook the slightest bit.
He cleared his throat, the sound low and rough. “Right. Yeah.”
Avery kept her back to him, brush lifted but unmoving, shoulders held too stiff to be casual.
Rook opened his mouth — a word, an apology, something — but nothing came out. The moment was too raw, too close, and he wasn’t about to push her when she was already scrambling for distance.
He swallowed hard, let out a slow breath, and stepped closer instead of away.
“Here,” he said quietly, reaching past her for the second brush on the table. His voice was steadier than he felt. “You missed a spot.”
Avery hesitated, just for a heartbeat, then nodded without looking at him.
