“Am I trying to sand it or turn it on?” I joke.
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t dignify it with a response. If I had been my brother and this were ten years ago, he would’ve been laughing at that. I try to ignore the awkward silence and just get to work.
Ronnie’s downstairs, some classic rock playing low from his phone. The bass hums faintly through the floorboards, blending with the rasp of the sandpaper as I start working. The repetitive motion is oddly satisfying until I realize Damien’s closer than he needs to be, working on the opposite wall.
Every time I glance up, I catch the cut of his shoulders moving under his shirt, the way his forearms flex when he presses the sandpaper into the wood. Sawdust clings to his dark hair, making it look light.
At one point, I bend to reach the bottom edge of the trim and drop the block. It skitters toward him, bumping his boot. He crouches to pick it up, and for a moment we’re face to face in the quiet, only the music and our breathing filling the space.
He hands it back, fingers brushing mine again, too slow to be an accident this time.
“Careful,” he says, his voice low. “You’ll scrape your knuckles if you hold it wrong.”
“I’ll survive,” I murmur.
His gaze dips to my mouth before he stands, turning back to his work like nothing happened.
I focus on the trim, but my pulse is louder than the sandpaper now. Every accidental pass of his arm behind me, every shift of his shadow in my peripheral vision, keeps my skin buzzing.
It’s just sanding. Just work.
Except it’s not, and we both know it.
Ronnie’s voice carries up the stairs. “I’m running to the hardware store. Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”
“Get more painter’s tape,” Damien calls back.
“Got it. And I may or may not stop for donuts,” Ronnie adds, his boots thudding across the downstairs floor before the front door shuts.
The house falls quiet, leaving me remotely aware that this is the first time we’ve been alone.
I set the sanding block on the windowsill and flex my fingers. “So… about this fake relationship of ours.”
Damien glances over from where he’s taping off the already sanded baseboards. “What about it?”
“Well,” I say, leaning my hip against the wall, “if we’re going to convince people, we should probably work on our chemistry. You know, in public.”
His brow lifts. “I’m sure just seeing us together is enough to make it convincing.”
I tilt my head. “Maybe. But wouldn’t it be a shame if someone looked at us and thought,Eh, they don’t seem that into each other?”
He peels off another strip of tape, keeping his eyes on the wall. “You planning on holding my hand, little Hart?”
There’s an air of amusement when he says it. And it makes what I’m suggesting just sound silly.
“I just think we should have a plan. Handholding. Public dates,” I pause just long enough for the next part to hit. “Kissing, when people are watching.”
That makes him look at me. Slow. Measured. Like he’s deciding whether I’m worth answering.
“You think we need to work on our chemistry by what… practicing kissing?” he asks.
I shrug, playing it light. “Just saying. We wouldn’t want it to look fake.”
He stands, crossing the room until he’s close enough that I have to tip my head back slightly. “I think,” he says quietly, “you’d have a hard time pretending, little Hart.”
The words hang there between us, heavy and hot.
Before I can answer, the sound of a car door slamming outside jolts the moment apart. Damien steps back, turning toward the trim like nothing happened.
