“I can fix that.”

He said it so casual the first time. The day your roof sprung a leak, that’s when he first let those words slip. It was that tone, you know the kind—the one folks use when they’re tryin’ to sound real confident, like they’re lookin’ to impress someone, maybe even just themselves. He fixed it—didn’t ask for much, just three jars of them sweet peaches you can’t seem to make enough of.

“I can fix that…”

The second time he said it, he got distracted. You were standing under a big ol’ tree, your hair catching the sun, making it glow, and your eyes pulling him in. He could hear it in his own voice, how it softened.

He fixed the windows for free that time. You were inside, reading his favorite book to your class. He couldn’t help but finish the sentences for you. When you finally looked up and smiled, he went back to work.

Then you called out, “The door’s not hangin’ right, Jean.”

“I can fix that…”

So, he fixed it. But while he worked, he listened to that Galliard boy—one of them Marleyan folks—flirtin’ with you. He listened to you shut him down with that polite smile of yours, but it stung all the same.

He figured he'd show up again. He’d told himself it was to make sure that roof didn’t need fixin’ again. But more than that, he was lookin' for an excuse—any excuse—to see you.

Jean knew he was just lookin’ for things to fix—looking for ways to be close to you. But what could he do? You were a Marleyan, and he was an Eldian. That made everything about you two more complicated.

He figured he’d see you, sittin' pretty with a sweet as peaches smile in that old chair of yours, your thumb flicking through the pages of a book, maybe your hair still wet from the nighttime rain.

But no. There you were, still in that same chair, but this time, hunched over a book—though he doesn’t think that’s what you’re cryin’ about. Your shoulders were shaking, and your face was hidden, buried in your hands, crying like a storm was rollin' through inside you.