There’s something in his voice now that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with what came before. I hear it—the betrayal. The exhaustion of building something with someone who walked away.
“I’m not her,” I say, softer now.
He meets my gaze. “You left a life once too.”
“And you stayed in one that’s slowly closing in on you,” I reply. “We both chose survival over risk. The only difference is I’m ready to try something different.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but I see the flicker of something in his eyes—fear, maybe. Or hope, immediately smothered.
“I can’t do this again,” he says, like it costs him something to admit. “I can’t open up to someone who’s already halfway out the door.”
“I’m not—” I start, but he lifts a hand, a quiet stop.
“You wrote your ending, Penny,” he says. “I’m just trying to read the signs before I get blindsided.”
“So that’s it?” I ask. “You’re going to decide who I am based on notes I scribbled two months ago and ignore everything we’ve built since?”
He exhales, steady and controlled. “It’s not about who you are. It’s about what’s real. And right now? I don’t know what is.”
I step closer, heart pounding. “You are. This is. What I feel—this is.”
But he shakes his head and starts collecting his tools. His movements are clinical, practiced.Detached.
“I need to check on my dad,” he says, already halfway toward the door. “Painters come at one. The materials list for tomorrow is on the bench.”
“Wait—what does that mean?” I follow him outside. “You’re leaving?”
“If we’re going to hit the production deadline, we can’t afford distraction. I’ll refer you to Blake Reynolds. He’s solid. He can get it done.”
“You’re quitting?” I ask, stunned. “After everything?”
“I’m being practical,” he says. “This isn’t working.”
“You mean us,” I say. “This thing between us.”
“I mean the project,” he replies without hesitation. “The rest... doesn’t exist.”
And just like that, he gets in the truck. The gravel crunches under his tires as he pulls away, and I’m left standing there, staring after him, the cold wind cutting through my jacket and something colder settling deeper inside.
For most of my life, I was the one who left. I thought it was safer—easier—than waiting to be asked to go. But now, for the first time, I stayed. I rooted. I let someone in.
And he walked away anyway.
The deliberate dismissal hurts more than his anger did. At least anger had weight, heat—at least it meant there was something worth fighting for. This calculated distance is worse. It’s erasure. A quiet rewriting of everything we’ve built beyond hammer and nails.
“That’s not true,” I say, and my voice is quieter than I mean it to be. “And you know it.”
He doesn’t respond. Just keeps gathering his plans from the workbench, his back to me, posture rigid with restraint. For a second, I think he might turn around. That he might look at me and admit—if only for a breath—that this is more than some severed contract. But instead, he just squares his shoulders like he’s cinching a load, like he’s locking it all down again.
“I’ll have my final invoice prepared by tomorrow, Ms.Winslow. Blake can start as early as Thursday if that works with your schedule.”
Ms. Winslow.
Not Penny. Not Winslow, which used to sound like a tease, like something meant only for me. Now it’s just armor. A wall made of formality and finality.
“Don’t do this,” I say, the edge of desperation creeping into my voice, even as I try to hold it back. “Don’t walk away. Not from the project, not from—” I can’t even finish the sentence.
“There is no us,” he says, flat and final. “There’s a renovation contract. That’s it. And it’s no longer viable.”
