Page 25 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

TEN

If Jules thought it had been a long night at work midway through their shift, that was nothing compared to the last two hours.

They’d nearly begged Sam to close without them so they could rush home to see what Keaton would do if they woke him up.

He’d been in rare form tonight, and Jules hoped they were finally going to test the waters with more than steamy kisses and cuddling on the couch.

Jules shut the door softly behind them, the deadbolt clicking into place.

They stood there for a second, fingers still curled around their keys, letting the stillness settle in around them.

It was almost one-fifteen a.m., and the hallway light Keaton insisted on keeping dimmed after ten cast a soft amber glow across the tile floor.

Their boots made the faintest thud against the floor as they toed them off, careful not to let the soles smack against the wall the way they usually did. They were trying to be more mindful out of respect for Keaton.

Jules padded toward the living room, their sweater sleeves tugged over their hands.

The TV was still on, the screen quietly looping previews for movies they’d never watch.

Keaton was sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown over his head, the other gripping the remote, resting on his chest like he’d fallen asleep while trying to find something to watch.

The throw blanket had slipped halfway off his legs, his socked feet peeking out at the end. His face was soft in the kind of way Jules rarely got to see—unguarded, mouth parted slightly, a crease between his brows still lingering like he hadn’t quite let the day go.

Jules’s breath caught.

He’d tried waiting up.

Jules moved closer, slow and quiet, and lowered themselves onto the edge of the couch cushion near his knees.

They didn’t touch him. Not yet. Just folded their arms around their legs, chin resting on their knees, and watched him breathe.

This couch was a thing of beauty, deep enough that Jules didn’t imagine they’d have any problems spooning on it while relaxing at the end of a long day.

When was the last time someone had waited for them to get home?

Not because they wanted something. Just because they cared.

They reached toward him, fingers hovering an inch above his hand. Close enough to feel the heat of his skin. Not close enough to wake him.

“I’m home,” they whispered. “Are you going to wake up?”

Keaton had told them to be creative with how they woke him. Jules knew how they wanted to do it, but this all still felt so surreal that they weren’t sure they could wake him with a kiss. But maybe that was exactly what Keaton had been hoping for but hadn’t known how to ask.

Keaton shifted slightly, his brow smoothing out. The hand on his chest slipped to the side and something clattered softly to the floor.

Jules blinked.

Keaton’s phone.

They leaned down and picked it up, careful not to press any buttons. But the screen had already lit up, one message half-typed and unsent.

Miss you. Hurry home?

Jules’s chest tightened.

Keaton had fallen asleep before he could send it. Before he could ask. But he’d meant to. And that was enough.

More than enough.

They set the phone gently on the coffee table and leaned in, softly pressing their lips to his.

They closed their eyes, absorbing the feel of his plump lips, the ghost of his sleepy exhale across Jules’s skin.

They wanted to live in this moment forever.

This was what it felt like to be chosen.

Not in a loud, dramatic way. But in the quiet moments.

The ones that didn’t need to be announced just lived.

Jules sat up and watched Keaton sleep when he didn’t even stir, their eyes tracing the stubble along his jaw, the way a lock of hair had fallen out of place against his temple. The urge to reach out and brush it back was strong—ridiculous, really—but they didn’t.

Not yet.

Jules barely had time to blink before Keaton stirred, a quiet sound escaping his throat as he shifted under the blanket. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then squinting toward them in the dim light.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice low and rough with sleep. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Jules smiled, soft and entirely involuntary. “You were out cold.”

Keaton blinked again, like he was still catching up. “Thought I might hear the door if I stayed out here. Didn’t want to go to bed alone.”

That landed harder than it should have. It wasn’t the words so much as the way he said them—matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t a big deal to admit he wanted to see them when they got home. Like it was okay to want that now. It was sweet.

Sleeping alone wasn’t anything new for either of them. Did that mean Keaton wanted them to sleep in bed with him tonight? Or was it sleepy confusion that caused the words to slip out?

“You know,” Jules said, tugging their sleeves over their hands, “I could get used to this. You’re cute when you’re just a little needy.”

Keaton let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “That what this is?”

“Pretty sure.” Jules bumped his knee with theirs. “But I like it.”

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, then glanced at the TV screen still flickering with previews. “You hungry?”

Jules shrugged. “I could eat something.”

Keaton pushed the blanket off and stood, stretching until his back cracked. He padded toward the kitchen without another word, and Jules followed.

In the kitchen, Keaton moved like he didn’t need to think. Bread from the pantry, cheese from the fridge, pan on the stove—all muscle memory. He opened a drawer, pulled out the worn spatula with the melted edge, and set it down like it was part of a ritual.

“Late-night grilled cheese,” he said, glancing at them.

Jules leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You make it sound like it’s on the secret menu.”

“Only served between one and three a.m.,” Keaton deadpanned. “Limited seating.”

“Is this your response to the tomato? A grilled cheese offering in its honor?” They needed to say something to lighten the moment because it felt weirdly charged.

The smell of sizzling butter filled the room, and Jules’s stomach rumbled. Keaton moved with quiet ease, the kind that came from knowing exactly what needed to be done and doing it without fanfare. No overthinking. No hesitation.

Jules, on the other hand, was overthinking everything.

This felt too easy. Too good.

Keaton cut the grilled cheese diagonally and handed Jules half without ceremony. Their fingers brushed as he passed it over, and they felt it all the way down to their toes.

Everything in the room shifted. Not dramatically. Not with a bang. Just a quiet, magnetic pull that made the air feel heavier. Sharper. Alive.

Jules took a bite and let the melted cheese burn the roof of their mouth because they weren’t about to wait for it to cool. “This is criminally good.”

They chewed in silence for a few beats, the kind that wasn’t awkward so much as loaded. Jules kept their eyes on the countertop, afraid that if they looked up, Keaton would see too much.

But then again, maybe that was the point.

“I really like this,” Jules said, keeping their voice low. “You waiting for me to get home, making me something to eat. With you. But it scares the crap out of me.”

Keaton didn’t flinch. Just took another bite, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Me too.”

Jules looked up then because they had to, and found him watching them with that same quiet intensity he always wore when the stakes were high. Not fearful. Not cautious. Just honest.

“I’ve never done this before,” Jules admitted. “The slow thing. The real thing. I’m used to people who want the version of me that’s easy to show off. The one who makes jokes and doesn’t ask for anything.”

Keaton set his sandwich down. “I don’t want a version of you.”

Jules’s throat tightened. “Then what do you want?”

“You. All of you. Even the parts you’re not sure you want to share yet.” He stepped forward just enough to close the space between them, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jules blinked hard, trying to keep the burn behind their eyes from spilling over. “For someone who claims to be bad at relationships, you have a way of knowing just the right thing to say.”

They reached out, fingers closing around his. Keaton’s hand was warm, solid, grounding in a way that made Jules feel like maybe they weren’t falling—they were landing.

It wasn’t long before the last of the grilled cheese was gone and the kitchen settled into a comfortable silence. Jules’s fingers brushed the edge of their cup, half-filled with water now gone lukewarm, still catching the trace of butter in the air.

Keaton had leaned back against the counter, arms folded, a low hum of something almost like calm around him. Not quite relaxed, but closer than Jules had seen him in a while. It was as if neither of them knew what was supposed to come next.

They stood slowly, stretching just enough to feel their spine pop, and picked up their plate. “I’ll wash?—”

“Leave it,” Keaton said. “I’ll wash in the morning after breakfast.”

Jules snorted. “Somehow, I’m not sure that’s going to work out for you.” Keaton hated anything being left in the sink at the end of the night.

“Maybe I just need the right motivation to keep my mind off what hasn’t been cleaned up.

” He reached out for Jules’s hand, leading them back into the living room.

Jules’s heart raced, and they felt a bit dizzy from anticipation.

There was no doubt that tonight would be different from any other since they’d moved in.

They stopped short when they caught sight of the formerly bare wall.

Something was new—no, not new. Familiar.

Their breath caught as a lump formed in their throat.