9. Tessa
TESSA
By the time I decide to ask for help, I’ve already convinced myself I don’t need it. Which is, statistically speaking, how I end up needing it.
The back door of the bookstore is worse than I thought.
It doesn’t just stick—it sags slightly in the frame, like it’s been forced open too many times and never properly repaired. The lock barely aligns, and every time I try it, it catches at an angle that makes my teeth grind.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Nope. Not happening.”
I sigh.
“Fine.”
Archer is the obvious choice. Which is irritating. Because I don’t want him to be the obvious choice. I head across the street anyway.
The mechanic shop is open like usual, the smell of oil and metal hitting me as soon as I step inside. It’s quieter than I expected. Just a few tools clinking in the background.
Archer is under a car. Of course he is.
“Hey,” I call.
He slides out slowly, wiping his hands. His eyes land on me immediately, like I’ve interrupted something that required full focus. Which, honestly, I might have.
“What,” he says.
Not a question. Just… a statement of endurance.
I cross my arms. “My back door is broken.”
A pause.
Then: “And?”
I blink. “And I need it fixed.”
“You want me to fix it.”
“Yes.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Then he sits up fully, studying me in that same infuriatingly quiet way he always does. Like he’s weighing the request against something I can’t see.
“I’m busy,” he says finally.
I gesture around the garage. “So am I.”
That earns a faint exhale. Not quite a laugh. Not quite irritation. Something in between. He stands, grabbing a towel and wiping his hands more thoroughly now.
“When?” he asks.
“Now would be great,” I say. “Before it falls off entirely.”
His eyes flicker briefly—just a second—like he’s considering refusing out of principle alone. Then he sighs.
“Fine.”
Relief hits hard.
“Thank you,” I say quickly.
“Don’t,” he replies immediately.
“Don’t… thank you?”
“Don’t assume this means anything.”
I narrow my eyes. “It means my door gets fixed.”
He is silent. Which is basically his version of agreement. We walk back to the bookstore in silence. It should feel awkward. It does.
But there’s something else underneath it. Something that makes the silence feel… full instead of empty. I don’t like that. At all.
Inside, he takes one look at the door and immediately starts assessing it without speaking. He runs his hand along the frame, tests the hinge alignment, shifts the wood slightly.
“You’ve been forcing this closed,” he says.
“Yes.”
“That’s why it’s worse.”
“I noticed.”
He shoots me a look. “Do you always fix things by making them worse first?”
“Only the important ones,” I say.
That earns another one of those almost-reactions from him. Not quite amusement. Not quite frustration.
He starts working. The space is small. Too small. I realize it immediately.
Every movement he makes puts him closer to me, closer than he’s ever been outside of emergencies. The air feels tighter. More aware.
I lean against the counter, trying not to notice how much attention my body is paying to his presence.
“You’ve got a habit of not explaining things,” I say after a while.
He doesn’t look up. “You’ve got a habit of asking questions you don’t need answers to.”
“That feels unfair.”
“It’s accurate.”
I exhale. “People in town act weird around you.”
That gets a pause. Not much. Just enough.
“I noticed,” I add.
Still nothing.
“You going to tell me why?”
“No.”
I huff. “Of course not.”
He tightens a screw. “You don’t need to know.”
“That’s not a real answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I stare at him. He doesn’t look back.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But I’m still curious.”
“You should stop being curious.”
“That’s not how curiosity works.”
He stands slightly, adjusting the frame. “It would serve you better here.”
That lands differently. He says it like advice. Not warning.
I frown. “Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?”
“Neither.”
“That’s helpful.”
Silence and staring. After a long moment, I try again.
“You always this charming with customers?”
“I don’t have customers.”
“Right,” I say. “Forgot. I’m just lucky.”
That finally gets a look. Sharp. Brief. And gone again.
“Stay out of the forest at night,” he says suddenly.
I blink. “What?”
“Don’t go out after dark.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s a warning.”
“For what?”
He tightens his jaw.
“Just don’t,” he says.
And that’s it. No elaboration. No context. Nothing. Which somehow makes it worse.
I watch him for a moment longer than I should. Then I nod slowly.
“Okay,” I say. “That was unsettling.”
“Good.”
He goes back to work like the conversation is over. But mine isn’t. Not even close. I almost don’t go ask him. Almost. I stand outside the mechanic shop for a full minute, staring at the open garage like it’s going to give me an easier option if I wait long enough. It doesn’t.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Back door wins.”
I step inside. Archer is under a vehicle again. Of course he is. He slides out slowly when I speak, wiping his hands with the same towel he always seems to have nearby like he lives in a perpetual state of mechanical readiness.
“Why are you here again?”
I ignore the tone.
“My back door is still terrible.”
That earns a pause.
Then: “Still?”
“Yes.”
I cross my arms. “Apparently you’re not a foolproof handyman.”
Another pause. Slightly longer. Then he sits up fully, studying me like I’ve presented a problem he already didn’t want to deal with the first time.
“I never claimed to be.”
He doesn’t say anything else as he heads in the direction of my shop. We walk back in silence again. I’m starting to realize this is a pattern. A frustrating one.
Inside the bookstore, he goes straight to the door, examines it, tests the frame, presses along the edges. I hover nearby, watching him work. It’s hard not to notice how focused he is when he actually commits to something. Everything else disappears. There’s no hesitation, no wasted movement.
Just control. Efficiency. It’s… distracting.
“You always this grumpy when you fix things?” I ask.
“No.”
“That felt like a lie.”
He kneels and adjusts the frame slightly, testing alignment again.
“What did you do to it after I left?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I respond, far too quickly.
“Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“I fixed it. Well enough that it closed. I didn’t install a new door. I didn’t install new molding. Just because it closes… closed… doesn’t mean it’s not still old. And rickety. Stop. Forcing. The door.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re splitting semantic hairs now?”
“Are we?”
He tightens something near the hinge, then pauses.
“You should replace this,” he says.
“I don’t have the budget for ‘replace everything that bothers me.’”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It sounded like it.”
He exhales once through his nose.
“You asked for help,” he reminds me.
“I did,” I admit. “And I appreciate it.”
“Don’t.”
I narrow my eyes. “You really hate gratitude.”
“I hate expectations.”
“That feels like a therapy problem.”
He finally looks at me. It’s brief. But sharp.
“Most things are,” he says.
The answer throws me off for half a second. Then I recover.
“You’re impossible to read, you know that?”
“That’s intentional.”
“Comforting.”
He goes back to the lock mechanism. For a while, we work in silence. Not peaceful silence. Just… loaded.
Every movement in the small back room feels more noticeable because of how close he is. The space is tight enough that when he shifts position, I have to adjust mine. Which is annoying. And something else I’m not going to name.
“People in town act like you’re important,” I say after a while.
He pauses. Just barely.
“Don’t start that again,” he says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you need.”
“That’s not how questions work.”
He tightens the final screw harder than necessary.
“You should stop asking about things people don’t want to explain.”
“That sounds like a red flag for exactly the thing I should be asking about.”
Silence again.
Then, quietly: “Don’t forget about not going into the forest at night.”
I blink.
“That again?”
“Yes.”
“That’s helpful.”
He stands, testing the door. It closes cleanly now—smooth, solid, no catch.
“There,” he says. “Done.”
I hesitate.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “But I’m still going to ask eventually.”
“You won’t.”
“That sounded like a challenge.”
“It wasn’t.”
But I’m already filing it away anyway. Because nothing about this town adds up. Not the people. Not the reactions. Not him. And definitely not the way I keep feeling like I’m missing something right in front of me.