Unfinished Repairs
917 Words
The hammer rhythm echoed through the old walls of the inn like a heartbeat—steady, focused, stubborn. Wyatt wiped the sweat from his brow, then leaned back and eyed the board he’d just secured. The hallway floor was finally starting to look like it wouldn’t swallow someone whole, which was more than he could say for how he felt inside.
No matter how many nails he drove or boards he replaced, the memories still clung to every corner of the inn. The late-night card games on the porch. The Sunday breakfasts Gran used to make. The way Harper used to sneak outside barefoot, laughing like the whole world was hers.
Now she walked these halls like a stranger—defensive, guarded, worn around the edges. And yet, underneath all that armor, he saw it: the part of her that hadn’t changed at all.
And damn it, that part still killed him.
Wyatt sat back on his heels and reached for the thermos of lukewarm coffee he’d brought. It tasted like metal and bitterness. Perfect.
The attic had been quiet since their conversation the night before. Too quiet. And he couldn’t get the sound of her voice out of his head.
“I missed this.”
He hadn’t expected her to say it. Especially not after everything. But when she looked at him with those dark eyes, framed by dust and golden light, it felt like being sucker punched by hope.
He hated hope.
Hope made you stupid. It made you wait. It made you believe that things could go back to how they were, that maybe she came back for more than an inn, more than an obligation.
But Wyatt wasn’t the kind of guy people came back for.
Especially not Harper Quinn.
He finished his coffee and stood, shoulders aching. He needed a break. Or a distraction. Maybe both.
---
Fifteen minutes later, he stood in the inn’s backyard, eyeing the broken-down swing set that used to squeak every time Harper dared him to jump off from the top bar. It was half-sunken now, the wood rotting, metal chains rusted. Like everything else she’d left behind.
He almost didn’t hear the footsteps behind him.
“You used to scream like a baby every time you tried that jump,” Harper said, arms folded.
Wyatt didn’t turn right away. “I had more sense than you.”
She stepped up beside him, arms brushing, just barely. “But I always landed on my feet.”
“That’s the thing about you,” he muttered. “You always land.”
She turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “Why are you really doing this, Wyatt? Why did you say yes?”
He met her gaze. “Because Gran meant something to me. And because, like it or not, this place does too.”
“And me?” she asked, softer.
He flinched. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re here to stay or just long enough to fix what you broke.”
She stiffened. “You think I came back to make things harder?”
“I think you left and never gave a damn what happened after you did.”
The silence between them stretched tight, full of old wounds and unsaid apologies. She looked away first this time, the tension in her jaw giving her away.
“I was drowning, Wyatt,” she said finally. “This town, this place… I couldn’t breathe anymore.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“I didn’t know how.”
He exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the ache crawling up his chest. “I waited, Harper. For months. Every day I thought maybe I’d get a letter. A call. Something.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and this time, her voice broke a little. “I was scared that if I heard your voice, I’d never go.”
He looked at her then. Really looked. And he saw the truth—not just guilt, but fear. Not just regret, but loneliness. They’d both carried their pain differently, but it was pain all the same.
“I hated you for a long time,” he admitted. “Still do, some days.”
She gave a sad little smile. “Same here.”
Then they both laughed—and it wasn’t bitter. Not entirely.
Wyatt sat down on the old bench beside the swing set, and she followed.
“I came back to do this one thing right,” she said. “For Gran. For me. Maybe even for you.”
He stared at the trees swaying in the breeze. “I don’t need you to do anything for me.”
“I know,” she said. “But maybe I do.”
That silenced him.
And for a moment, they sat like they used to—side by side, not touching, hearts full of words they couldn’t say. The wind rustled leaves overhead, and the evening sun warmed their faces. The world around them had changed. But the space between them? That felt dangerously familiar.
Too familiar.
“You know what scares me the most?” Harper asked suddenly.
“What?”
“That this town still feels like home. Even after everything.”
Wyatt turned his head. “It never stopped being home. You just stopped letting yourself remember.”
And just like that, something cracked open.
Not everything was forgiven. Not everything could be.
But something had started to heal.
- Writer
