5. Lina #2
Before I can look up, a large, heavy body crouches down beside me in the narrow aisle.
The scent of him, expensive cedarwood and a faint hint of tobacco, hits me like a physical wave.
He is so close his shoulder brushes mine, his massive frame completely blocking out the light from the front windows.
"Move," John says.
"I can do it," I say, my voice tight as I struggle to hold the weight of the bookcase. "I don't need your—"
"Lina."
He says my name. It is the first time he has used it since the landing, and the sound makes my fingers go completely weak. He reaches out, his huge hand closing over mine on the side of the bookcase.
His skin is burning hot. The contrast against my cold fingers is so sharp I let out a soft, involuntary gasp.
"I have it," he murmurs, his fingers gently squeezing mine before he slides his hand up to take the full weight of the wood. "Let go."
I slowly pull my hand away, my heart hammering a wild, frantic rhythm against my ribs. I don't stand. I stay crouched beside him, my eyes locked on his face as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, compact black multi-tool.
He doesn't have a hammer. He has a battery-powered mini-drill.
"Where did you get that?" I whisper.
"I keep it in my pocket," he says, not looking at me.
"Who walks around with a power drill in their pocket?"
"A man who lives next to a clumsy girl," he says, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch touching the corner of his lips.
He aligns the crooked metal bracket with the wall.
The muscles in his forearm flex beneath his gray sweater, the veins standing out against his tanned skin as he applies pressure.
He pulls the trigger on the tool. A soft, high-pitched whir fills the aisle, and within three seconds, the screw is driven perfectly into the oak, securing the bracket flat against the plaster.
He stands up, effortlessly pulling the bookcase back into perfect, level alignment. It doesn't wobble. It doesn't groan. It is more stable than it has been in ten years.
"There," he says, looking down at me. "No coasters required."
I look at the shelf, then up at him. I am still on the floor, looking like a dusty mess, while he stands over me, looking like an advertisement for expensive winter clothing. The sheer hostility of his good looks makes me stubborn.
"It's still a little crooked," I lie, pushing myself up from the floor.
He steps closer, closing the small gap between us until I am forced to tilt my head back. His eyes trace my face. They linger on my forehead, where a small smear of gray dust is clinging to my skin.
"You have dirt," he murmurs.
"Where?" I reach up, rubbing my cheek.
"No," he says.
Slowly, with agonizing deliberation that leaves my throat completely dry, he raises his hand.
His rough thumb brushes my temple. He wipes the dust away with a gentle, dragging touch that sends a violent shiver down my spine.
My chest heaves, my breath hitching as his thumb lingers on my skin, his fingers brushing the edge of my dark hair.
He is staring at my lips. His chest is rising and falling against mine, and for a split second, the air between us feels so hot I think the paperbacks on the shelves might catch fire.
I want to step back, but my heels are locked against the bottom shelf.
I want to tell him to stop, but my tongue feels like lead.
He is too close. Too unpredictable.
Suddenly, his hand freezes.
The warmth drains from his touch in an instant. His fingers go rigid against my temple, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle in his cheek twitches.
"John?" I whisper, confused.
He doesn't look at me. His head snaps toward the front window of the shop. His eyes, which were warm and heavy just a second ago, go completely dead, turning into two cold, black stones. The glacier is back, but this time, it looks lethal.
"Stay here," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that makes my blood run cold.
"What's wrong?" I ask, my hand instinctively reaching out to grab his arm. The muscle under his sleeve is hard as steel, vibrating with a sudden, violent tension.
He doesn't answer. He steps in front of me, his massive body shielding mine completely from the window as he takes three silent, predatory steps toward the front of the shop.
I look around his shoulder, my heart in my throat.
Outside, the gray fog is swirling against the glass. The street is quiet, the yellow streetlamps casting long, watery shadows on the wet pavement. But as I follow John's intense, burning glare across the street, I see it.
A figure is standing in the alleyway opposite the shop.
The stranger is wearing a heavy, dark jacket with the hood pulled low over his face. He is standing completely still, his eyes fixed directly on my shop window, directly on me. But the moment John steps into his line of sight, the figure stiffens.
The stranger takes a step back into the shadows of the alley, turns, and darts away, disappearing into the gray mist before I can even see his face.
John doesn't move. He stands by the glass, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture so rigid he looks like a statue carved out of granite. The sheer violence radiating off him is terrifying. It is a quiet, controlled rage that doesn't belong to a normal neighbor.
"Who was that?" I ask, my voice shaking as I walk up behind him. "John? Do you know him?"
Slowly, the tension drains from his shoulders. He turns back to look at me, his face completely expressionless once more. The lethal predator vanishes, replaced by the cool, arrogant neighbor.
"A tourist," he says simply, though his voice is still rough. "Looking for shelter from the rain."
"He was staring right at us," I say, rubbing my arms through my sweater. A sudden, cold prick of unease dances across my skin. It felt different. It felt like the dark sedan from last week. "It didn't look like he was looking for shelter."
"The fog makes shapes look strange," John says, taking his cup from the counter and draining the last of the black coffee. He looks at me, his eyes steady, but there is a dark, protective shadow in them that wasn't there before. "Go lock the back door, Lina."
"Why?"
"It is drafty," he says, offering no other explanation. He slides the empty cup onto the counter, his fingers brushing mine one last time, a brief, burning touch. "I will see you around, neighbor."
Before I can ask him anything else, he turns and walks out the front door, the bell chiming a lonely, metal note behind him.
I stand in the quiet shop, my chest tight, my mind racing with a hundred questions I don't know how to ask. I look out the window at the empty, foggy street, then down at the level, wobbly-free bookcase in aisle three.
He fixed it. He fixed the shelf my mother put up.
But as I walk to the back of the shop to jiggle the lock on the door, checking it twice, just like I always do, I can't shake the memory of his hand on mine. Warm. Solid. And entirely too strong.
And for the first time in my life, the locks on my doors don't feel like enough to keep the outside world away.