5. Emilia #2
He picks up another log. Sets it on the stump. Doesn't look at me again.
But his next swing hits so hard the stump cracks down the middle.
I find the coffee grounds in a tin canister above the stove.
No label. No brand name. Just dark, coarse grounds that smell like they could strip paint.
I boil water in a dented percolator that looks older than me and it bubbles through the basket until the liquid runs black as crude oil.
Pour it into a clean mug I find a hook under the cabinet.
Plain white ceramic, chipped at the rim.
I carry it across the living room, through the big door, and into the cold.
The garage is a separate world from the cabin.
No warmth here. No pine ceilings or wool blankets.
Just raw concrete and fluorescent strips and the sharp bite of metal and chemicals.
Justice is underneath something. A truck, I think.
Not his tow truck. Something older, darker, with rust eating through the wheel wells.
Only his legs are visible, bent at the knee, boots planted flat on the floor for leverage.
The creeper he's lying on squeaks every time he shifts his weight.
Tools surround him in a semicircle. Wrenches. Ratchets. A breaker bar the length of my forearm. A red shop rag draped over a socket set. Everything within reach of a groping hand without needing to look.
I stand at the tool scatter and wait.
A grunt from beneath the truck. Then a metallic clang. Then a word I pretend not to hear.
"I made you coffee."
The creeper rolls. He slides out from under the chassis feet-first, then torso, then his face, and his expression when he sees me standing in his garage holding a white mug is something between confusion and annoyance.
Grease streaks his forehead. His hands are black with it.
He's put a shirt on since the woodchopping, a gray thermal pushed to his elbows, and it's already filthy.
He takes the mug. Drinks without testing the temperature. His throat works twice.
"Thanks."
He sets the mug on the concrete beside the creeper and slides back under the truck.
I don't leave.
A full minute passes. The fluorescent lights buzz. Something drips in the far corner. His hands work above him, visible in the gap between the truck's undercarriage and the floor. The ratchet clicks in a fast, practiced rhythm.
"You can go back inside."
"I'm fine."
The ratchet stops.
"Floor's covered in brake fluid and oil. You're barefoot."
I look down. He's right. I forgot shoes. The concrete is frigid against my soles and I can see the dark, iridescent sheen of spilled fluids mapped across the floor in overlapping stains.
"I'll be careful."
He slides out again. Sits up on the creeper. Those blue eyes rake over me, starting at my bare feet on his filthy garage floor and climbing to my face with something like exasperation.
"Go back inside, Emilia."
"No."
His jaw tightens. A muscle pulses near his ear.
"I want to help," I say. "Tell me what to hand you. I can organize the bench again. Anything."
"This isn't—" He stops himself. Looks at my hands. They're still raw from last night's scrubbing, the knuckles pink and the fingernails torn from where I was gripping my own kneecaps in the dark room. "You don't need to earn your keep here."
"Maybe I need something to do with my hands."
He holds my gaze. Something shifts behind those cold irises. Not warmth, exactly. Recognition. The understanding of a person who also can't sit still when the silence gets too loud.
He grunts. Lies back down on the creeper. Slides under.
"Socket set. Red rag. Fourteen millimeter."
I crouch beside the semicircle of tools and find the red rag. Beneath it, sockets nested in a molded tray, each one stamped with a tiny number. I squint. Find the fourteen. Pull it free and hold it under the truck.
His fingers close around it. Brush mine. Just the rough pads of his fingertips dragging across my knuckles, calloused skin against raw skin, and a jolt runs up my arm like I touched a live wire.
I stand too fast.
My left foot slides.
The oil patch is invisible against the dark concrete.
One second I'm upright and the next my balance is gone completely, both feet skating out from under me, and my hands grab at nothing but air and I'm falling backward toward the concrete and the tools and the breaker bar that will crack my skull if I land on it?—
He moves faster than a man his size should be able to move.
The creeper shoots out from under the truck. He's on his feet in a motion so explosive the truck rocks on its jack stands. His arm hauls me forward and me slams flush against his and my bare feet leave the ground entirely.
Everything stops.
His arm is a band of iron across the small of my back. The gray thermal is damp with sweat and black with grease and I can feel every single ridge of muscle beneath the thin fabric. His heart pounds under my right hand. Hard. Steady. Fast.
I tilt my head back.
His face is right there. Inches. Grease on his jaw.
Grease on his forehead. Those blue eyes staring down at me with something that isn't cold at all.
Something nuclear and barely contained. His breath hits my lips.
His fingers press into the flannel at my waist, five individual points of pressure, and I feel each one like a brand.
Neither of us breathes.
My toes dangle six inches above the oil-slicked floor and I'm pinned to him by one arm and the garage is silent except for the fluorescent buzz and the wild, frantic drumming of my pulse in my throat.
His gaze drops to my mouth.