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The air in the Donner family sweetshop usually smelled of roasted sugar, dried molasses, and the sharp, clean bite of peppermint oil. Today, it just smelled like rain tracing cold tracks down the front glass.
Maysilee rested her chin in her hand, watching the street outside. District 12 was quiet under the dark cloud cover, the kind of stillness that meant the miners were either down the shaft or hunkered in the Hob trying to drink off the chill. The bell above the door chimed, a small, bright brass sound that cut through the low murmur of her sister puttering in the back room.
Wyatt slipped inside, shaking the dampness out of his dark hair like a stray dog. He didn't look like he belonged in a shop filled with fresh sugar ribbons and pastel peppermint drops. His jacket was patched at the elbow with coarse thread, and his boots carried damp mud.
"You're tracking dirt, Callow," Maysilee said, not moving from her stool behind the glass counter.
"Swept it twice yesterday, Donner. I know the drill," Wyatt replied, pulling off his damp cap and tossing it onto a small iron table near the window.
He walked over to the counter, leaning his elbows on the polished wood. "Your father out?"
"In the back. Inventory." She finally sat up straight, smoothing down her collar. "You're late."
"Had to wait for my brother to finish with the boots." He reached into his pocket and slid two chipped copper coins across the glass. "Give me two peppermint sticks. The thick ones."
Maysilee looked at the coins, then at him. She didn't pick up the money. Instead, she turned, pulled down a painted tin from the shelf, and pulled out three.
"Don't go getting soft on me," Wyatt murmured, taking one as she set them between them.
"It's a business strategy. Keep the Seam boys coming back," she shot back, though her voice lacked its usual sharp edge. She bit off the end of her own candy stick, the bright mint bursting against her tongue.
Wyatt snapped his peppermint stick in half with a crisp crack. He leaned against the counter, looking at her with an intensity that made her pull her shoulders back just a fraction.
"You look tired, Maysilee," he said softly.
"I've been wrapping sugar for four hours. Anyone would look tired." She reached across the glass counter, her small, pale hand resting beside his broad one, close enough that their fingers brushed without quite touching.
"You're still too stubborn for your own good," Wyatt offered, a faint, lopsided smile breaking through his mood. "They ought to charge extra for your attitude."
"I'd charge you double," she said instantly.
"I believe it."
Outside, the rain began to fall harder, drumming a steady rhythm against the shop window. For twenty minutes, they sat together in the warmth of the sweetshop,surrounded by jars of lemon drops, dark chocolates, and silver jars. They talked about ordinary things, letting the sound of the rain block out the rest of the district.
When the streetlamps flickered to life outside, signaling the start of the evening curfew, Wyatt stood up and pulled his wet cap back over his head. He looked down at her, lingering by the counter for a beat longer than necessary.
"Don't eat all the good fresh stuff before tomorrow, Donner," he said quietly.
Maysilee didn't stand up. She held his gaze, her chest tight. "Come by earlier and I won't have to."
He turned and pushed through the door, the brass bell ringing once, brief and clear, before the cold wind swept in to take his place.