Page 134 of Primal

I glance over. The edges are black. One of them has a hole in the middle.

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Come on. Just one.”

“I’d rather not go to the ER, thanks.”

“Rude,” she mutters and sets the plate next to me anyway. As if proximity will wear me down.

I crouch to fiddle with the printer cables. She crouches, too, unnecessarily close.

“So,” she says casually. “Are you always this grumpy?”

“This is me being friendly,” I deadpan.

She snorts.

The silence stretches. Thank fuck she doesn’t fill it with nervous chatter. She just waits.

Maybe I don’t mind this either.

Her scent slips under the whiskey. Something vanilla and fruity. It sticks in my chest. In the back of my throat. In places I don’t want to think about.

I stand. Loosen the screws.

She rises beside me.

I don’t have to look to know she’s propped against the wall, arms crossed, every move a quiet tease.

She tips her head toward mine. Too fucking close. The hair on the back of my neck rises—

My jaw tightens. Her stare is something I refuse to meet. Don’t give a damn how green her eyes might be. Don’t care if they still gleam.

I wrench the casing off. Something in the innards cracks.

Fuck.

“Careful there, Mr. Fix-It. I’m on a renter’s budget.”

I glance sideways—in time to see her bite into one of the charred cookies. Her face goes through all five stages of grief.

A rough sound punches out of me. Not quite a laugh or a cough. The kind of involuntary noise you make when someone steps on a rake. “Keep mocking, and I might start charging by the hour.”

I reach back into the printer, fingers finding the jammed roller. Twist. Tug. Pop.

The tray shifts. The screen clears.

READY.

She blinks. “Wait, did you actually fix it?”

I shrug. “Told you. Five minutes.”

“Okay, show-off. But thanks, IT Guy.” She takes another bite of the blackened husk, grimacing harder this time. “One more question. Is my bathtub really haunted?”

I lift a brow. “Who told you that?”

She licks a crumb off her thumb. “Max.”