“Tell me what to do. I’m in.”
We return to work, the silence companionable now. I match his rhythm, learning with each pass. The day stretches long, dust clinging to every inch of me.
“Like this?” I ask, prying up subfloor carefully.
“Almost.” He steps beside me, adjusts my grip. His hands cover mine, warm and solid.
Just a second. Just enough to feel it.
Rule #4: No catching feelings for the grumpy carpenter.
I repeat it like a mantra.
Then I break another piece of drywall and Owen sighs.
We keep going.
We keep working until late afternoon, the slant of sunlight through broken windows casting golden stripes across the dusty floor. I’m filthy, sore in muscles I didn’t know existed, and sporting at least three splinters despite Owen’s“these will actually protect your hands”gloves.
But beneath the grime and exhaustion is something else—something quieter, deeper.
Satisfaction.
Not the hollow, caffeine-fueled burnout of my PR days. This is real. This is earned. A bone-deep tired that feels... honest.
“Good progress,” Owen says, wiping down his tools.
From him, that’s practically a standing ovation.
“Even with my early sledgehammer ambitions?” I ask, grinning through a mask of drywall dust.
“You’re a quick learner.” He pauses, then adds, “When you actually listen.”
“I always listen,” I say. “I just—selectively implement.”
That earns me a look. The kind that saysI’m not mad, just constantly recalibrating your risk factor.
I stretch, wincing as my spine pops like bubble wrap. “So, what’s next? Foundation apocalypse planning?”
“I’ll draw up the revised plan tonight,” he says, scanning the stripped interior. “We’ll go over it tomorrow. This changes the scope. But it’s better to know now.”
More time. More money. More commitment.
And yet...
“Worth it,” I say, and I mean it.
He looks at me, steady and unreadable. Then: “That’s the only way worth doing it.”
We finish cleaning up in a quiet, easy rhythm. Owen packs up tools with the same precision he uses to build—or demolish—anything else. Every wrench, every blade has a place. Amethod. A reason.
There’s something reassuring in that. Something grounding.
Finn ambles over and nudges my hand. I scratch behind his ears, grateful for the uncomplicated affection.
“He likes you,” Owen says, snapping his toolbox shut. “He’s usually more cautious.”
“I’m very likable,” I reply, giving Finn one last ear rub. “You know, once you get past the impulse control issues and karaoke-level enthusiasm for demolition.”
