Then he turns away. “This section needs replacing. Water damage is too deep.”
“Right,” I say, my voice catching. “I’ll add it to the list.”
We keep working. The tension doesn’t leave—it just gets quieter. We move around each other with that same precise choreography we’ve developed over weeks of building, but now every glance feels loaded.
By ten, the insulation’s out and the fans are humming. We’re both filthy and running on fumes, but we did what we could.
“We should call it,” Owen says, wiping his hands. “Early start tomorrow.”
I nod and start cleaning up. That’s when the lights flicker—once, twice—and then cut out.
“Perfect,” I mutter, flipping on my phone flashlight. “Power outage?”
“Generator,” he says, grabbing his own light. “Probably ran out of fuel. I’ll check.”
Rain hammers the roof as he heads out. Minutes later, he’s back—soaked.
“Bad news,” he says. “Not fuel. Line’s busted. Can’t fix it in this weather.”
“So we’re out until morning.” I glance around the darkened site. The fans are silent. The heater’s off. The temperature’s already dropping.
“You should head back to the camper,” he says, grabbing his tool bag. “At least it has propane heat.”
“What about you?” I ask, glancing at his soaked shirt, clinging cold and heavy.
“I’ll finish securing things here, then head home,” he says, already moving to cover exposed materials.
I should head back to the camper like he suggested. But instead, I stay. We work in silence, flashlight beams crossing like spotlights as we move through the dim shell of the house, hands finding familiar tasks even in the dark.
The temperature keeps dropping, and a shiver runs through me. I start bouncing in place, adding arm swings for warmth.
“What are you doing?” Owen asks, his beam catching me mid-bounce.
“Staying warm,” I reply, not stopping. “Circulation. Movement. Survival.”
“You look like you’re having a seizure.”
“I’m dancing,” I say, flinging my arms in something vaguely rhythmic. “It’s a time-honored survival strategy. Movement equals warmth. Science.”
“That’s not dancing,” he says flatly. “That’s flailing.”
“Says the guy standing perfectly still and freezing to death.”
I spin—badly—and nearly topple a stack of trim boards. He doesn’t move to stop me, just watches, expression unreadable in the half-light.
“I don’t dance,” he says finally. The words are soft but edged with something that doesn’t feel like humor.
I slow. “You don’t have to,” I say gently. “Just sway.”
Before I can rethink it, I close the space between us. My hands find his shoulders, damp through the fabric, warm underneath.
“See?” I whisper. “Movement.”
He’s still for a beat. Then his hands settle—tentative, then steady—on my waist.
We move. Not quite dancing. Just… moving. The rain on the roof becomes our soundtrack. The flashlight beams cast long shadows across the unfinished walls, a makeshift spotlight for something neither of us has admitted aloud.
My hair slips loose from its tie, brushing his cheek. I feel his breath hitch.
