"They'll love all of it." I gesture to the entire structure. "You've created something magical, Cal. Better than I could have imagined."
He shrugs, but I catch the pleased look in his eyes. "We created it. Your ideas shaped everything."
"My ideas would have stayed on paper without your hands to build them."
Our eyes meet, and something electric passes between us. These moments have been happening more frequently—lingering glances,accidental touches that don't feel entirely accidental. I clear my throat and turn toward the supply table.
"We should clean up. It's getting late."
We work in companionable silence, washing brushes and securing paint cans. Cal moves with that deliberate efficiency I've come to admire—no wasted motion, no unnecessary steps. I'm the opposite, flitting between tasks, chattering about the upcoming unveiling ceremony.
"I was thinking we could have a special storytime to introduce it," I say, wiping down the table. "Maybe something about trees or stars or—oh! What aboutThe Giving Tree? Though that always makes me cry, so maybe not the best choice for a celebration..."
Cal watches me with that quiet intensity that makes me feel simultaneously seen and exposed.
"Sorry," I catch myself. "I'm doing it again. Going a million miles a minute."
"I like listening to you," he says simply.
The unexpected comment catches me off-guard. "Most people find it exhausting."
"Most people?"
I focus on organizing the paintbrushes, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "Men I've dated, mostly. I've been told I'm 'a lot to handle.' Too loud, too enthusiastic, too..." I wave my hands, searching for the right word, "...everything."
Cal is silent for a moment. "Sounds like you've been dating the wrong men."
I laugh, but it comes out hollow. "That's what my friends say. But after a while, you start to wonder if maybe the common denominator is you."
"Molly." The way he says my name, gentle but firm, makes me look up. "Being passionateisn't a flaw."
"Tell that to David, who said my 'constant cheerleading' gave him a headache. Or Michael, who suggested I try being 'more mysterious' because apparently having opinions about everything isn't sexy." I'm sharing too much, but can't seem to stop. "Or Greg, who actually shushed me in public because I got excited about a book display."
Cal's expression darkens. "They sound like idiots."
The blunt assessment startles a genuine laugh out of me. "They weren't all bad. Just... not right, I guess."
"Not right for you," he corrects, voice firm.
We move to the sink in the staff kitchenette to rinse the last of the brushes. Standing side by side, I'm struck again by our physical differences—his tall, solid frame making me feel delicate despite my curves.
"What about you?" I venture, curiosity overcoming my better judgment. "Margaret mentioned you've been keeping to yourself since your grandfather passed."
Cal focuses on the brush he's cleaning, his movements methodical. For a moment, I think he won't answer.
"It's easier that way sometimes," he finally says. "People expect things I'm not good at giving."
"Like what?"
He shrugs one shoulder. "Small talk. Constant communication. Being the life of the party."
"You communicate just fine," I protest.
"Not according to my ex-fiancée." The admission seems to surprise even him. "She said being with me was like 'trying to have a conversation with a brick wall.' That I never shared enough, never said enough."
My heart aches at the resignation in his voice. "That's not fair."
"Maybe. Or maybe she was right." He turns off the water, drying his hands on a paper towel. "I'm not good with words. Never have been."
