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A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “Debatable.”
I force myself to roll my eyes and look back at the hinge. “Are you going to help or just argue?”
He huffs a small laugh, the sound surprisingly warm. I hate how much I like it.
We work together in silence, fingers occasionally brushing. Every touch sends another spark skittering through my veins, and I pretend not to notice when his hands hesitate a second too long before pulling away.
Finally, after some adjustments, the hinge gives way smoothly. Bryan leans back, wiping his forearm across his forehead. “Finally.”
I grin. “See? Told you.”
He just shakes his head, watching me. Something flickers in his expression, something unreadable. I feel my cheeks heat.
“What?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly… “Nothing.”
I don’t believe him. And I hate that I wish I could. The rest of the evening is easier.
Bryan fixes the last of the loose nails in the staircase while I finish organizing the supplies. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable.
I catch myself stealing glances at him more often than I should. And every time I do, my chest tightens in a way I can’t explain.
Later, as we finish cleaning up, Bryan dusts his hands off and heads toward the stairs. "Goodnight."
His voice is gruff, clipped but there’s something softer underneath. I hesitate, fingers brushing over the rag in my hands. Then, before I can stop myself, I whisper;
"Missed this."
He pauses on the steps.
For a second, I think he heard me. But then, without turning, he continues up, leaving me alone in the dim basement, my pulse still too loud in my ears.
***
The old house settles around me, creaking softly in the hush of night. The only light in my room comes from the small lamp on the nightstand, its soft glow stretching over peeling wallpaper, casting long, sleepy shadows along the walls. The air is cool, tinged with sea salt and old wood, the distant crash of waves a steady pulse in the silence.
Buddy is curled at the foot of my bed, his rhythmic breathing a comfort, his warmth a steady weight against my feet. I wonder what Bryan thinks about Buddy’s disloyalty, and it makes me smile. Good doggie.
We spent the whole day working, painting, fixing things, making this place liveable again. My body is sore, my fingers stiff from gripping paint rollers and screwdrivers.
But my mind refuses to settle. I flip open Grandma’s binder, smoothing my hand over the worn pages.
Her careful script fills every inch, notes on window replacements, ideas for the garden, even sketches for a porch swing. She had dreams for this place. Big ones.
I wish she was here. Not just because she’d know exactly what to do about the creaky floors and peeling paint, but because she always knew what to say … and because I love and miss her.
She would’ve known how to handle living under the same roof as Bryan. She would’ve had something wise and firm to say about the way my stomach keeps flipping every time he’s near.
I think about today. The way we moved around each other so easily. The quiet teamwork.
And him. His laugh, low and unguarded, when I reminded him of his terrible painting skills. The way his eyes had flickered with something unreadable when our hands brushed. How his presence, solid and steady, made everything feel less heavy.
I don’t know why I feel like this. Or maybe I do. I close my eyes and let my mind drift back. Bryan at 17. Back when he was mine.
The summer heat sticky in the air, his hands brushing over my scraped knee after I tripped chasing Buddy on the beach. His voice, firm but gentle. "Can’t lose you, Em."
I had laughed it off then, teasing him for being dramatic. But he meant it. And I had left anyway.