Page 24 of Crowbar

Another peck on his cheek. Crowbar softly growled. “Playing with fire, Spencer.”

“Playing for keeps.”

He collected the tray with the efficiency of someone who’d done this before. Not the breakfast-in-bed part specifically, but the caretaking. The quiet, practical kind that didn’t announce itself. At the door, he glanced down at me, his eyes soft. “Already caught me, Indoors.” Then he walked out, Noodles trailing behind him.

Chapter Seven

Spencer

The main strip of town was three blocks of old brick storefronts, a post office, a bookstore with a hand-painted sign, and a hardware store that looked like it had been there since the earth cooled. Crowbar walked beside me with Noodles on her leash, the puppy zigzagging between our legs like she was trying to braid us together.

Every few steps she’d lunge at a pigeon or a leaf or her own shadow, and Crowbar would correct the leash with a flick of his wrist so subtle it barely registered.

His hand found my back pocket somewhere between the post office and the traffic light. Just slid in, casual, like it had always lived there. His palm was warm through the fabric, fingers curled against the curve of my hip, and I felt the contact in every nerve ending south of my collarbone.

The morning sun cut between the buildings at a low angle, throwing long shadows across the sidewalk and warming the back of my neck. My sling was navy blue and ugly and made me look like I’d lost a fight with a revolving door, but Crowbar hadn’t mentioned it once, and the people we passed on the sidewalk gave us enough of a wide berth that nobody bumped my arm. That might have had less to do with the sling and more to do with the six-foot-something biker attached to my back pocket.

“There.” Crowbar nodded toward a shop on the corner. The sign read MAIN STREET MERCANTILE in faded gold lettering. It was the kind of store that sold candles, journals, and things nobody needed but everyone wanted.

“What’s in there?”

“Markers.”

“Does that mean I get to write POOKIE + INDOORS on a telephone pole?”

“No defacing public property.” He steered us through the door. The interior smelled like lavender and old wood. Shelves lined every wall, crammed with notebooks, art supplies, greeting cards, and an alarming number of ceramic animals. A woman behind the counter looked up from her crossword, clocked Crowbar’s leather cut, and went back to her puzzle without blinking.

Crowbar released my pocket long enough to navigate the narrow aisle, Noodles’ nails clicking on the hardwood. He stopped in front of a spinning rack of art supplies and plucked a pack off the hook, holding it up for my inspection.

Glitter markers. A twelve-pack, every color of the rainbow plus gold and silver, the kind that left sparkly trails on everything they touched.

“For the sling,” he said.

I stared at the markers. Then at him. Then back at the markers.

“You want me to decorate my sling.”

“You’re gonna be wearing it for weeks. Make it yours.”

An ache blossomed. He wasn’t trying to fix the sling or fix me. He was handing me glitter markers and telling me to make the ugly thing mine. I was not going to cry in front of the craft lady.

“I’m going to draw so many stars on this thing,” I said, and my voice only wobbled a little. “And at least one portrait of Noodles.”

“Gunner.”

“Noodles. She’s getting a glitter portrait and a crown. Deal with it.” And he was getting a different kind of kiss later.

Crowbar bought the markers without letting me see the total. The woman at the register smiled at Noodles, who was trying to eat my shoe, and handed us the bag with a quiet “Have a good one” that felt like she meant it.

Back on the sidewalk, Crowbar’s hand returned to my pocket. I tore open the marker pack with my teeth, uncapped the gold one, and started drawing a wobbly star on the front of my sling while walking. The glitter caught the sunlight and threw tiny specks of light across my shirt.

“That looks like a starfish,” Crowbar said.

“It’s abstract. You wouldn’t understand. Art is subjective.”

“That’s what people say when it’s bad.”

“That’s what people say when they’re barbarians.” I added a second star, slightly less wobbly. “There. A Noodles constellation.”