Page 7 of The Space Between
He pauses.
“I—thank you. I assumed it was you at the door. I don’t know anyone else. And … you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He replies.
“But you did it anyway?” I say with a question in my tone.
“Yep.” He grunts.
“Why?” I ask since he’s not volunteering any information.
His jaw tics. He doesn’t look at me. Then, he quietly says, “Because people should have things that don’t fall apart.”
Oh, wow.
My breath catches. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods, just once, and walks away.
I sit there, stunned… because I just saw the tiniest sliver of the man behind the armor. And it damn near broke me.
It’s fully dark,no hint of the day is left, when I wander down toward the river. I couldn’t sit still and nothing was keeping my attention. Not after the way he looked at me earlier today.
Almost like… he cared.
Stop it, Blakelyn.
He’s just a man with a single woman next door.
Of course, he’s looking out for you. Even if he doesn’t want to. It’s in his nature.
There’s nothing more to it.
I hear music. It’s low and rough, drifting from the tubing shack. The lights are still on inside, though it’s after hours, and it’s long been closed. I inch closer.
He’s working on something. A pile of worn life jackets sits beside him, and he’s threading new buckles through the straps like he’s building armor. The music’s gritty. Bluesy. Some kind of outlaw country that sounds like whiskey and broken hearts.
I shouldn’t interrupt. But I want to. So, instead of walking straight back to my cabin, I knock on the doorframe.
His eyes flick up in what looks like annoyance. He doesn’t smile. He never smiles… but he doesn’t tell me to leave either.
“Do you need help?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He arches a brow. “You know how to sew a harness strap?” He dryly asks.
“No. But I’m good at making conversation.”
“That right?”
I nod, stepping inside. “And I make a mean cup of coffee. I thought you might need some.”
I hold up the thermos I brought. It’s navy blue, worn, probably older than me. Grandma Nan’s.
He takes it from my hand like it weighs more than it should. Nodding once, he motions to the stool across from him.
We don’t talk much.
He works. I sip my coffee. The music plays, but there’s something in the silence.
