Page 71 of Lose You Twice

“Can’t help you there.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Wren looks up. “You offering free labor, Captain?”

The word sounds different from her. Not mocking exactly, but not respectful either. It lands somewhere between challenge and habit, and I feel it low in my stomach.

“Depends on what you need,” I say, eyeing the pile of equipment and totes that still need to be taken to the bus. I don’t outright offer to help because I know she’ll turn me down.

She looks at the bags, then back at me. “I can handle it.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

Donnelly grunts from behind his clipboard. “If he’s helping, I’m using him. Mercer, grab the black tote on your right.”

Wren gives Donnelly a look, but he doesn’t seem to care.

I grab the tote. It’s heavy enough that I have to adjust my grip. Wren notices and reaches for the side handle at the same time I do.

Our fingers brush, just barely. Still, my whole body reacts.

Heat moves through my palm and up my arm before I can stop it. My grip tightens on the handle. Wren’s breath catches, so small I’d miss it if I weren’t already paying too much attention.

Her eyes lift to mine, and the room suddenly feels way too warm for a hoodie, maybe even clothes in general.

Neither of us moves.

Donnelly clears his throat. “Unless you two plan to flirt that tote into the bus, move.”

Wren drops her hand first.

Color rises in her cheeks, but she turns away before I can see how much.

“I wasn’t flirting,” she mutters.

Donnelly doesn’t look up. “And I’m not holding a clipboard.”

I carry the tote out before I do something stupid, like smile.

The rest of the morning is travel prep, which is usually pretty boring. Bags get labeled, sticks get checked, medical supplies get packed, guys drift in and out asking questions that Donnelly answers with less patience each time.

Wren keeps up.

That’s the thing I notice most. She asks questions when she needs to; she doesn’t pretend to understand something she doesn’t. She writes instructions on sticky notes in messy, slanted handwriting that makes my chest ache because I remember notes passed under desks and grocery lists stuck to her mother’s fridge.

Every few minutes, I catch her looking at me.

Every few minutes, she catches me looking back.

Neither of us says anything about it.

By noon, the equipment hallway is loud with carts, bags, and some of the team making everything harder by standing in the way. Weston appears with a roll of tape stuck to his wrist and no explanation.

“Do I ask?” Wren says.

“Please don’t,” Asher answers.

Weston lifts his wrist. “I was testing adhesive strength.”