Page 48 of Knot Baked Out For This
"Why do you care?" I counter.
He returns to the hinges. "Someone should."
The simplicity of it hits harder than any grand declaration. Someone should care. Someone should fix my door. Someone should notice when I almost fall.
Dangerous thinking. This is how it starts—small kindnesses that feel like salvation until you realize you've traded your freedom for the illusion of safety.
"The new hinge needs to set," he says. "Don't use this door for twenty minutes."
"That's my only back exit."
"Then don't have any emergencies for twenty minutes."
"Oh sure, I'll just pencil that in. 'Seven-thirty to seven-fifty: no disasters allowed.'"
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
"You always this difficult?"
"You always this presumptuous?"
"When it comes to broken things that need fixing? Yes."
Am I a broken thing that needs fixing?
The question must show on my face because his expression shifts, softens fractionally.
"The door," he clarifies. "Just talking about the door."
"Right. The door."
We stand there in the gathering dark, neither moving, neither speaking. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. His scent mingles with the evening air—October leaves and distant woodsmoke and that ever-present dark coffee note that makes me want to lean closer.
Don't. Don't you dare.
"Why are you really here?" I ask finally.
He's quiet for long enough that I think he won't answer. Then: "Levi came back smelling like sunshine and vanilla and hope. Rowan's been walking into walls since you came back to town. Figured I should see what the fuss was about."
"And?"
His eyes find mine in the dim light. "You almost fell this afternoon. After Levi left. You caught yourself on the broken door, winced, rubbed your shoulder where it hit. Then you went back inside like nothing happened, served twelve more customers with a smile that didn't reach your eyes."
He saw all that. He was watching that closely.
"Stalking's illegal in this state," I manage.
"So's letting broken doors injure people." He stands slowly, unfolding to his full height, and I'm reminded that the Maddox twins are not small men. "It's fixed. Won't stick anymore."
He starts gathering his tools with the same methodical precision he used to deploy them. Everything in its place, everything with purpose.
"How much do I owe you?" I ask, reaching for my wallet.
"Nothing."
"I don't take charity?—"
"Not charity." He pauses, toolbox in hand. "Just... what should've been done already."
