Cracked. Tiny white lines along his knuckles.
“Oliver,” I said sharply. “What happened?”
“They’re just dry.
Grandma says real work toughens skin.”
I muted the call and stared at Nate.
He rubbed his face. “She said she’s paying him. Oliver does want this.”
“She said.”
“She’s strict, not stupid.”
I didn’t argue.
I should have.
On day fourteen, Eleanor drove him home herself.
No goodbye hug. No thank-you.
“Your things are in the trunk,” she said. “He’s all yours.”
Oliver climbed out slowly.
He didn’t look at me at first.
“How was it?” I asked, forcing cheer into my voice.
“Did you—”
“Can we go inside?” he interrupted.
Inside, he took off his coat, his boots, then sat at the table and stared at nothing. I poured him cocoa. Set it in front of him.
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