Chapter 6: Pressing Closer

Rain pinned them in, a steady drum beyond the glass. Water streaked the panes in heavy sheets, gray swallowing the town as noon sank beneath the storm’s weight. Shadows pooled around the shelves. Clocks ticked unevenly—some steady, others slipping. A soft clunk here, a lagging thud there. The room swayed to the storm’s syncopation.

He stood at the counter, a tray of screws cold in his hands. His shirt was still damp from the dash in. His vest sagged over a stool—wet, forgotten. Lira leaned over the back bench. Her pencil etched a pendulum arc—tight, exact. Her dress clung damp at the hem. A sodden scarf coiled beside her in the dim. Between them, the antique clock sat still, its brass dulled by stormlight. The key beside it still held last night’s buzz—an echo sharp in his thoughts.

The air pressed heavy—oil, storm, sweat curling beneath it. A chill crept through the floorboards. He slotted a screw into place with a faint click.

“Rain’s locked us in,” he said.

His voice rolled low beneath the storm.

She looked up. Pencil paused mid-curve. She set it aside on the bench’s edge.

“Good enough,” she said. Warm steadiness in her tone.

She crossed to him. Her boots tracked faint mud. Her dress clung at the thighs, darkened by rain. The light caught the curve of her hip before he turned back to the tray, fingers steadying another screw against the chill.

She reached—swift and certain. The key clicked into the slot. She turned it once.

“Once more,” she said. A tease curled in the words.

The air shivered. The buzz came low and clean.

Time slipped.

She landed back at the bench, pencil poised. The screws untouched.

She stepped close, shoulder grazing his.

“Dry here,” she murmured.

Her breath warmed his ear, stirring the damp strands of his hair. He turned. His hands met her arms—steady, just barely.

Her gaze locked his. Dark. Sure.

She leaned in.

Her dress pressed to his shirt, cold cloth yielding to warmer skin. Her hands slid over his shoulders, fingers curling slow into the fabric. Her breath touched his cheek—soft, even. His own caught. He leaned.

Lips hovered.

The air between them thickened—oil, rain, her skin.

Her hips aligned with his, damp fabric clinging where they met. A shiver rose through him. Her fingers traced the nape of his neck. The touch lingered, pressed.

His hands trembled.

He pulled back.

Screws clinked. His elbow knocked the tray.

“Too close,” he said.

His voice cracked, rough with her heat still burning in his chest.

She didn’t flinch.

Instead, she turned the key again—clean, bold.