"How are things with you?" Willow asks, oblivious to my silent assessment as a chair leg scrapes lightly on the wooden floor on her end. "Are you at home? You sound like you're in a big space."
"I am," I say, easing myself down onto the plush rug in front of the hearth, tucking my robe around my knees. The heat from the fire washes over my face, taking the chill off my damp skin. "Just finished up a shift at the shop. I spent four hours chasing down a short circuit on a Softail."
"Oh, the shop work," Willow says, her tone tilting into that gentle, bemused wonder she uses whenever I mention grease or iron. "You know, even in the short time I've known you, it still amazes me how natural you are with your hands. Turning wrench handles, fixing heavy machines... it feels so grounded. Do you l
