Helping the handyman

You rummage through the shed's cluttered shelves—garden shears, bags of fertilizer, a tangle of extension cords—and find both items within two minutes. A dusty floor pump with a cracked but functional gauge, and a half-empty can of WD-40 behind a stack of terra cotta pots.

"Found them."

Theron takes the pump, tests the handle with a practiced squeeze. "Perfect. This'll do."

He crouches beside the Bianchi, and you settle onto an overturned plastic bucket nearby, tucking your legs to the side. The shed smells of dry wood and old motor oil. Afternoon light slants through the grimy window, catching the muscles of his forearms as he works the pump onto the first tire valve.

"So Petal & Thread," he says, not looking up. The pump hisses rhythmically. "You always been into clothes, or is that a new thing?"

Careful. Truthful but not too truthful.

"New-ish. The owner gave me a book about textiles and I kind of fell down the rabbit hole." You watch his hands—broad, capable, grease-stained at the knuckles. "Turns out there's a whole language to how fabric drapes. It's like... reading someone's intentions through what they choose to wear."

"Huh." He switches to the rear tire. "I just wear whatever's clean."

"I noticed."

He glances up at that, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Fair enough."

The conversation drifts easily after that. He tells you about the property's irrigation system, how the previous owner installed it wrong and he's been fixing it in stages. You mention the smart-home setup, carefully vague about specifics. He talks about his own place—a farmhouse fifteen minutes outside town that he's been renovating since his divorce.

"Two years of drywall and I'm still not done," he says, wiping the chain with a rag before applying lubricant. "Turns out houses are like relationships. You think you're finished and then the plumbing gives out."

"Sounds like you're enjoying it, though."

"I am, actually. No one to consult on paint colors." He grins, and it transforms his face—crinkles around those dark eyes, a flash of something boyish beneath the stubble.

The attraction is still there, humming beneath your ribs like a low current. But it's different now. Thursday it was desperate, consuming—a fantasy you chased into the bathroom. Today it's... warm. Comfortable. Like sitting beside a fire you don't need to touch to appreciate.

Maybe this is what it feels like when you're not running from yourself anymore. Things just... settle.

He adjusts the brake cables, spins the rear wheel, listens to the rotation with his ear close. Makes a small adjustment. Spins again.

"There." He stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Tires are holding. Chain's moving. Brakes are responsive. You'll want new inner tubes eventually—these are patched and praying—but they'll get you to town and back."

He rolls the Bianchi out into the sunlight. It gleams—white frame, clean lines, suddenly alive.

"Thank you, Theron. Seriously. What do I owe you?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head, already heading for his truck. "Took twenty minutes. Hardly counts as work."

He opens the truck door, then pauses, one hand on the frame. Turns back.

"Listen—if you need anything else around here, I'm around. The property, the house, whatever. I know these grounds better than anyone." His voice is easy, unhurried. "Just call."

"I'll definitely keep you in mind."

He nods once, climbs into the cab. The truck rumbles to life. Through the open window, he lifts two fingers in a casual wave as he pulls down the drive.

You stand in the sunlight beside a working bicycle, the scent of WD-40 and fresh air mixing with the faint floral of your body mist. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Iris's referral email, probably.