The late afternoon sun spills through gauzy curtains, catching dust motes in sharp gold. I’m crouched behind the counter, coaxing a stubborn drawer back onto its rails, tiny screwdriver clenched between my teeth. Fingers nimble from years of fixing things—cabinets, shelves, my own fractured patience.

It’s not really my shop. I drift through towns, offering help wherever it’s needed, never asking why. But when she calls, voice soft, almost shy, saying the register’s jamming again… I never say no. Not to her.

The bell jingles, and she’s there. Sundress catching the light, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder, the edge of a novel peeking out beside a sprig of rosemary. She looks impossible, like the air itself molded her, sunburnt skin and honey-colored hair, and eyes I would drown in if I let myself.

She gives me that half-smile—careful, polite, the kind that’s unaware of the effect it has. “Oh, you’re still here?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, aware suddenly of the scuff of my boots, the grease on my fingers. “Drawer’s fixed. Wasn’t much… just needed someone to coax it.”

She chuckles, a sound that settles into my chest like an accusation, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. My pulse spikes. I think about asking her to lunch. Coffee. To sit beneath the ivy-draped pergola behind the shop and talk about anything, everything. I think about standing too close and not moving until she noticed me properly.

But she’s always alone. No hints, no calls, no rings. Just this quiet, untouchable gravity. She’s careful. Or maybe she’s just waiting for someone who’ll see her fully. Someone like me.

My chest tightens. Hands fidget. I shift my weight like I can shove the thought back into the floorboards, but it clings anyway.

“Anything else you need done while I’m here?” My voice is low, careful. Like I’m scared of breaking something—namely myself.

She turns. Those eyes again. Sharp, quiet, unknowable.

“No,” she says. Then, a pause. Soft. Calculated. “But… would you like to stay for tea?”

And just like that, the drawer, the screwdriver, the ache in my knees—they all vanish. The room narrows. The light, the dust, the faint smell of rosemary and old paper—all of it bends toward her. Tea. Just tea. But the world shifts on its axis, and I nod, heart hammering like it wants to climb straight into my throat.

Tea. And maybe, finally, the beginning of something dangerous. Something I wouldn’t survive… but wouldn’t want to.