Page 110 of Knot Baked Out For This
"I notice things." I shift the firewood. "Can I come in? This is getting heavy, and I'd rather not drop it on your feet. You're already clumsy enough without broken toes."
"I'm not clumsy," she protests, stepping aside. "I'm gravitationally challenged."
"That's literally the same thing."
"It sounds better."
"It sounds like something Levi would say."
"Take that back immediately."
I set the firewood by her tiny fireplace—which probably hasn't been used since the building was constructed—and carry the gingerbread to her kitchen. Her apartment smells like vanillaand cinnamon and that underneath note ofherthat makes my hindbrain purr like Muffin when she gets the good treats.
Speaking of the demon cat, she appears from nowhere, winding around my legs with suspicious affection.
"She likes you," Hazel observes. "She doesn't like anyone."
"She tolerates me," I correct, scratching behind Muffin's ears. "There's a difference."
"The difference is semantic."
"The difference is I bring her salmon treats when you're not looking."
"Bribery!"
"Strategic relationship building."
She laughs, and the sound fills the small apartment better than any music. "Tea?"
"After I fix your window. November's approaching. You'll freeze."
"I have blankets."
"You have denial. There's a difference."
"Now who's being semantic?"
I pull out my phone, already typing a list. "I need weatherstripping, caulk, and probably new glazing. Is your hardware store nearby still open?"
"Until seven, but you don't have to?—"
"Yes, I do." I meet her eyes, making sure she understands. "Pack takes care of pack."
Her cheeks pink at the wordpack, and she busies herself with something on the counter. "We just decided that yesterday."
"Doesn't matter if it was yesterday or years ago. Pack is pack."
The trip to the hardware store takes twelve minutes. Mr. Chen tries to give me the supplies for free when he hears they're for Hazel. I pay anyway because I'm not Levi—I understandeconomics. By the time I get back, she's set out tea and cookies, and the apartment glows with warm lamplight that makes everything soft and golden.
The window is worse than I thought. Not just failed caulking but actual rot in the frame, probably water damage from years of neglect.
"Your landlord should be fixing this," I mutter, prying out old glazing.
"My landlord is Mrs. Patterson's son, who lives in Florida and considers maintenance a suggestion."
"Then he's an idiot."
"He's cheap."
