Page 19

Callum

T he porch foundation is worse than I thought.

I've been measuring support points for twenty minutes, and what looked like simple settling from the street reveals itself as genuine structural compromise once I get underneath.

The main beam has separated from its post by nearly three inches, and the floor joists are sagging under weight they were never meant to carry alone.

It's fixable. Everything's fixable if you're willing to do the work properly. But this isn't the weekend project I'd initially estimated. This is going to take time, patience, and a complete rebuild of the support structure.

I make notes in my weathered notebook, sketching the current state and what needs replacing.

The morning air carries the scent of wood smoke from someone's early barbecue and the sweet fragrance of summer flowers from Lila's neighbor's garden.

Normal summer smells for a normal Friday in Honeyridge Falls.

Except nothing about this feels normal.

Lila's scent still clings to the air around her front door. Green apple and white musk, but different from yesterday. Stronger. Sweeter. I don't know enough about these things to understand what it means, but something has changed.

I shouldn't notice. Should mind my own business and focus on the work I came here to do.

But twenty minutes of measuring and calculating haven't been enough to stop my alpha instincts from cataloging every shift in the air, every subtle change that suggests something significant happened in that house this morning.

She answered the door flustered, still pink around the edges, with her scent warm and slightly scattered like she'd been caught doing something she wasn't sure she wanted to explain.

Her pupils had been dilated, her breathing quick and shallow, and when she spoke her voice carried that breathless quality that comes after surprise or excitement.

Or arousal.

The thought shouldn't matter. Shouldn't be any of my business what Lila does in her own house, what makes her scent spike with interest, what leaves her standing in doorways looking like she's been thoroughly affected by something.

But my hands still on the measuring tape as I catch another drift of that scent from the open windows above. Stronger up there. Like she's been spending time in that room, doing... something that's made it smell like her in a way it didn't before.

Five days in this town and I'm measuring crooked because of green apples and white musk.

I force myself back to the measurements, to the familiar rhythm of assessing what's broken and figuring out how to make it right. This is what I'm good at, understanding structures, seeing what needs support, knowing which pieces can be salvaged and which need complete replacement.

The irony isn't lost on me that I'm better at fixing houses than I am at understanding the woman who lives in this one.

The front door opens behind me, and I don't need to look up to know it's Lila. Her scent reaches me first, makes something tighten in my chest that I don't want to think about. Makes my hands want to do things that aren't about measuring wood.

"How's it looking?" she asks, her voice steadier than it was an hour ago but still carrying a note of uncertainty.

I glance up from my notebook to find her standing on the front steps, holding a glass of water and what looks like a sandwich wrapped in a dish towel. She's changed since I arrived. Traded the jeans and t-shirt for a simple sundress that shows her legs. Hair pulled back so I can see her neck.

The domestic picture she makes, offering food, checking on progress, caring for someone, it hits me harder than it should.

"Foundation's compromised," I say, closing the notebook and accepting the water she offers. "Not just settling. Actual structural damage."

Our fingers brush as she hands me the glass, and I catch the small intake of breath she makes at the contact. Her scent flares slightly, not with the sharp spike of surprise, but with something warmer, more curious.

"Is that bad?" she asks, settling onto the front steps with careful grace, the skirt of her dress arranged to maintain modesty while still looking unconsciously inviting.

"Bad enough that we'll need to rebuild instead of repair," I say, drinking half the water in one go. It's cold and clean, refreshing after working in the heat. "But not bad enough that it can't be fixed properly."

"Rebuild." She tests the word like she's not sure what it means in this context. "That sounds expensive."

"It's thorough," I correct. "Sometimes starting over is the only way to make sure something will last."

The words hang between us with more weight than I intended, and Lila's gaze sharpens slightly, like she's heard the metaphor I didn't mean to make.

"I brought you lunch," she says, offering the wrapped sandwich. "I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I just... it's turkey and Swiss. With mustard. Nothing fancy."

The gesture catches me off guard in a way that's becoming familiar around Lila. Not because it's unexpected, but because of the care evident in the details. The sandwich is cut diagonally, wrapped properly to stay fresh. I can't remember the last time someone made me lunch. Maybe never.

"Thank you," I say, accepting the sandwich with more gravity than the moment probably warrants.

I unwrap it carefully, noting the quality of the bread, the generous portions of meat and cheese, the way she's added lettuce and tomato to make it a proper meal instead of just sustenance.

When I take the first bite, the flavors are simple but well-balanced, good ingredients prepared with attention to detail.

"It's good," I tell her, and mean it.

Lila's smile is small but genuine, like my approval matters more than it should. "I'm still figuring out the whole... domestic thing. Cooking for other people, I mean. It's been a while."

There's a story in that admission, but I don't push for details.

Instead, I take another bite and let the comfortable quiet settle between us.

She stays on the steps while I eat, close enough that I catch her scent every time the breeze shifts, but not hovering or making conversation—just present.

Like she's content to share space without needing to fill it with words.

The silence gives me time to notice things I probably shouldn't.

The way she absently smooths her dress over her knees.

How she tilts her face toward the sun like she's still getting used to having time for small pleasures.

The fact that her scent has continued to evolve throughout our interaction, growing warmer, more settled, like my presence here isn't unwelcome.

Like maybe she's as affected by this quiet domesticity as I am.

"Can I ask you something?" she says eventually, her voice careful in a way that suggests the question matters.

I nod, finishing the sandwich and folding the dish towel with the same care she used to wrap it.

"When you rebuild something," she continues, "how do you know what parts are worth keeping?"

The question is about more than porch construction, and we both know it. I consider my answer while I drain the rest of the water, buying time to find words that will be honest without being presumptuous.

"You look for the bones," I say finally. "The foundation that's still solid. The framework that just needs better support." I gesture toward the porch structure underneath us. "This house has good bones. The problems are all surface-level or fixable. The core is worth saving."

Lila's gaze doesn't leave my face as I speak, and I can see her processing the words on multiple levels. When she nods, it's with the kind of understanding that goes deeper than construction metaphors.

"Good bones," she repeats quietly. "I like that."

I should get back to work. Should start organizing the lumber for Sunday's project, maybe take final measurements to confirm my material calculations. Should maintain the professional distance that's served me well for years, the boundaries that keep interactions simple and expectations clear.

Instead, I find myself studying the woman sitting on her front steps, noting the way afternoon light catches in her hair, how her scent has settled into something that speaks of contentment and possibility rather than the scattered energy she carried this morning.

Something protective settles in my chest that I don't entirely understand. Makes me want to check every window, every lock. Makes me want to stay here until I know nothing can hurt her. I've never felt anything like this before.

But instead of creating distance, the thought makes me want to show up Sunday and do the job right. Build her something that'll last.

"I should let you get back to work," she says, starting to rise from the steps.

"You're not bothering me," I say, the words coming out more honest than I intended.

Lila pauses halfway to standing, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, dress arranged around her legs in a way that's both modest and quietly appealing.

For a moment we just look at each other, her poised between staying and leaving, me sitting with an empty water glass and the lingering taste of food made with care.

"I know," she says softly. "That's... new for me."

The admission hangs between us, vulnerable in its simplicity. How long has it been since she felt like her presence was welcome without condition? How many times has she been made to feel like an interruption instead of a gift?

"Well," I say, setting the glass down and reaching for my measuring tape, "you know where to find me if you want to not-bother me again later."

Her laugh is surprised and genuine, transforming her whole face in a way that makes my chest warm. "I'll keep that in mind."

She heads back into the house, and I watch her go longer than I should, noting the confident way she moves, how the dress flows around her legs, the fact that she glances back once before disappearing inside.

The measuring goes faster after that, partly because I've already done most of the complex calculations, but mostly because I'm aware of every sound from inside the house.

The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood floors.

Water running in the kitchen. The occasional creak of old wood settling under careful footsteps.

Normal household sounds that feel different when you know who's making them. When she just made you food and sat with you like it mattered.

I finish loading my tools, each piece returned to its designated place in the truck's toolbox. Everything organized for efficiency, ready for the weekend project that will turn a compromised structure into something solid enough to last decades.

Whatever she's been working on up there has made that room completely hers. The knowledge makes something in my chest tighten. She's choosing to build something here, to put down roots in a place where broken things get fixed instead of replaced.

Where people like me notice when the foundation needs work and show up with tools and the patience to do things properly.

I could knock on the door. Thank her again for the sandwich, confirm Sunday's schedule, maybe offer to pick up any additional supplies she might need. All reasonable excuses for thirty seconds of conversation.

Instead, I tap softly on the front door—just loud enough for her to hear if she's listening, quiet enough that she can ignore it if she's busy with whatever project has filled the house with that rich, personal scent.

I don't wait for her to answer. Don't need thanks or anything else. Just want her to know I'm done for the day, that everything's secure.

The drive back to the shop takes me through downtown Honeyridge Falls, past the familiar storefronts and the comfortable rhythm of a Friday afternoon in a place where people know each other's names and stories.

But my mind stays fixed on green apple and white musk, on the careful way she wrapped a sandwich, on the quiet understanding that passed between us when she asked about keeping what's worth saving.

The thought should worry me. Should make me stick to business like I usually do. I haven't been with anyone in years. Dated a beta for a few months once, but that didn't work out. Figured I was better off alone. Easier that way.

But something about her changes things. That scent, the way she brings me food like it matters. Makes me think maybe I'm not as content with solitude as I thought.

The shop is quiet when I arrive. This is my sanctuary, the place where everything makes sense, where problems have solutions and broken things can be made beautiful again with the right tools and sufficient skill.

But as I organize Saturday's work orders, I find myself thinking about a different kind of sanctuary. I don't know what Lila is building upstairs, but I recognize the signs of someone choosing to invest in a place, to put down roots deep enough to weather whatever storms might come.

The same choice I made when I decided Honeyridge Falls was worth staying in.

The same choice I might be ready to make again, if she decides there's room in whatever she's creating for an alpha who knows how to fix things properly, who understands the difference between rebuilding and just patching over damage.

Who's willing to take the time to do it right.

Sunday can't come soon enough.