Page 26 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

Mounted above the bookshelf, hung with a precision only Keaton would’ve bothered with, was a painting. One of theirs. One they hadn’t seen in years. It had to have been in one of the boxes of canvases they’d moved into the storage room, but that didn’t explain why it was here , in a place of pride.

It was sharp-edged and chaotic. Reds and ochres clashing across thick strokes of black, the texture built up so heavily it refused to be ignored. They’d painted it during a breakup that had gutted them and then shoved it in a storage bin because it had felt too loud to hang, too naked.

Jules stepped closer, heart thudding somewhere behind their ribs. “You hung that?”

Keaton appeared behind them, close enough that Jules felt the heat of him before they heard the answer.

“Yeah,” he said, like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t gone digging through their storage tubs to find it. “I liked it. It felt like…you.”

Jules turned, eyebrows drawn together. “That’s not exactly a flattering comparison. That painting’s a whole mess.”

“I know,” Keaton said simply. “But it’s honest. It’s bold. Doesn’t apologize for taking up space.”

Jules blinked. The room blurred a little at the edges. Should they tell him what inspired the painting? No, there was no room for the past with them tonight.

“I want you here,” Keaton continued, voice softer now. “Even with you leaving your socks on the living room floor. Even when you forget I’m sleeping across the hall and turn up your music so you can paint to unwind after a long day at work.”

Jules swallowed hard, the words catching somewhere between their ribs and their throat. “You went through my stuff?”

“Only the art bins. I was looking for something to fill the space. Found that, and it just…felt like the one.”

They stared at the canvas again. Their hands itched with the memory of painting it—how raw they’d felt, how much of themselves they’d poured into the layers.

No one had ever chosen that version of them.

People liked the curated pieces. The ones full of light and whimsy, safe colors and soft edges. This one had teeth. And Keaton had looked at it and seen something worth displaying.

Jules exhaled, shaky and uneven. “You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t think you’d let me if I did.”

They turned, heart racing, and looked at him—really looked. He stood there with his arms crossed, not defensive, just steady. Like he wasn’t afraid of all the sharp, messy parts of Jules.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” Jules whispered.

Keaton shrugged, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You don’t have to do anything.”

They glanced back at the painting, then at Keaton. “You really like it?”

“I wouldn’t hang something I didn’t.”

They stood toe-to-toe, the weight of what Keaton had said—what he’d done—curling around Jules’s ribs like something alive. That painting on the wall, the grilled cheese, the way he’d waited up. It all said more than he ever had aloud.

Jules stepped in, heart pounding, and kissed him.

It wasn’t a dramatic thing. No sweeping arms or desperate mouths. Just a quiet press of lips to lips, unhurried and full of questions. Are we doing this? Are we ready? Do you want me like I want you?

Keaton answered with a soft sigh, one hand finding Jules’s hip, fingers curling there like it was second nature. His grip wasn’t hard, just firm enough to ground them when they felt like they might float out of their own skin.

The kiss deepened slowly, mouths parting, breath catching. Jules’s hands slipped into the soft cotton of Keaton’s T-shirt, clinging to the sides like they needed something real to hold on to. Keaton’s body was solid, warm, and steady in a way that made Jules feel both safe and undone.

They broke the kiss, foreheads pressing together, breath mingling. Jules’s voice came out quieter than they meant, a thread of sound barely holding together.

“Are we doing this?”

Keaton’s thumb brushed their hipbone. “Only if you want to.” He lifted his head just enough to meet Jules’s gaze, his voice low and rough. “Every part of me wants you. But only if you want this too.”

“I do,” Jules said. No hesitation.

Keaton nodded once, then stepped back—not away, just enough to take Jules’s hand. He didn’t pull them to the couch like Jules expected. He turned toward the bedroom.

Jules followed, heart thudding hard. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly.

It was the feeling that this wasn’t like the other times.

They’d had sex in unfamiliar beds and on creaky futons, in dorm rooms with posters of indie bands they didn’t like, with people who only wanted a piece of them—their mouth, their body, the novelty of someone different.

But nothing had ever felt like this.

There was a quiet certainty that Keaton would still be there when the lights came back on.

The bedroom was dim, the overhead light off, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow across the sheets Keaton had probably straightened before lying down because, of course, he had. Jules’s throat tightened, affection curling hard and fast in their chest.

Keaton turned to face them, hands resting lightly on Jules’s hips. “You okay?”

Jules nodded. “Yeah. Just want this to last. Part of me feels like I must be dreaming.”

“You’re definitely wide awake.” Keaton leaned in and kissed the corner of their mouth. “Let me take care of you.”

That did them in.

They kissed again, slower this time, like they both knew they had time. Keaton’s hands slid beneath Jules’s sweater, warm palms skimming over the curve of their back, the dip of their waist. Jules let out a soft moan, fingers curling into the fabric of Keaton’s T-shirt, tugging it up.

“Take this off,” Jules murmured, and Keaton obeyed without a word, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it to the side. He didn’t want to wait another second to see what Keaton kept hidden under those shirts.

Jules’s breath caught. Keaton was all broad shoulders and lean muscle, with a trail of dark hair leading down his stomach that made their mouth go dry.

He looked strong in a way that wasn’t showy—just quiet, earned strength.

The kind that came from years of lifting drywall and carrying weight that wasn’t always physical.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Jules said, voice low, almost reverent.

Keaton huffed a laugh, hand gripping the hem of Jules’s sweater. “Let me see you.”

Jules raised their arms, letting him pull the fabric up and away, nerves sparking as the cool air kissed their bare skin. They watched Keaton’s eyes drag over them, slow and deliberate, as he reached out and touched, thumb brushing over Jules’s nipple.

Jules gasped, bucking slightly into the touch.

Keaton smirked. “Sensitive?” He dug a fingernail into the other nipple, causing Jules’s back to arch.

“Ungh,” Jules breathed, but their voice broke on it. “Yeah.”

He leaned down, mouth latching onto the spot he’d just teased, sucking gently. Jules whimpered, their hands threading into Keaton’s hair.

Everything after that moved in slow motion.

Keaton kissed down their chest, over their stomach, then knelt to undo Jules’s pants.

His fingers were steady, reverent. Jules took off their socks and stepped out of their pants when they dropped, standing in nothing but a pair of briefs that had definitely seen better days.

Had they known they’d wind up here tonight, they’d have taken more care when picking out a pair.

Now, they’d simply use tonight’s embarrassment as a reason to buy all new.

Keaton pressed his mouth to the sharp line of Jules’s hipbone and murmured, “Gorgeous.”

Jules’s breath stuttered. They weren’t used to this—the compliments, the way Keaton looked at them like they were something to be unwrapped, not just undressed.

Keaton stood again, crowding in close. Jules’s cock strained beneath the thin cotton, leaking already, their body responding faster than their mind could keep up. Keaton cupped their face, kissed them deep, and walked them backward until the backs of Jules’s knees hit the bed.

“Lie down,” he said, voice low and rough.

Jules obeyed, heart hammering. Keaton followed, crawling over them, kissing down their neck, across their chest. When he reached their waistband, he paused. “May I?”

Jules nodded, too breathless to speak.

Keaton eased the fabric down, slow and deliberate, revealing inch after inch of flushed skin. Jules’s cock bobbed up, hard and leaking, and Keaton’s breath hitched.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so pretty like this.”

Jules’s cheeks burned. “I’m nothing special.”

They were too skinny, too pale. Nothing like Keaton.

Keaton scowled, leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of their thigh. “Keep talking bad about yourself and I’ll think you’re looking to get spanked.” Jules whimpered. “Or not. Sounds like you want me to redden your perfect little ass. That won’t make for a very effective punishment.”

Jules’s breath hitched as Keaton kissed his way up, dragging his tongue along the length of Jules’s shaft in one excruciatingly slow stroke.

Jules cried out, their entire body arching off the bed, every nerve ending alight with sensation.

Keaton held them down with one strong arm, the other hand wrapping firmly around their cock, his grip steady and sure.

“Need you,” Jules panted, their voice a ragged whisper. “Keaton—please.”

“I’ve got you,” Keaton said, his voice a low, reassuring rumble as he sucked them in deep.

Jules’s hands flew to Keaton’s shoulders, fingers digging in with desperation.

They weren’t going to last—not like this.

Not with Keaton’s mouth hot and wet around them, his tongue teasing the underside, his hand stroking what he couldn’t take.

The sensation was overwhelming, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation that left Jules trembling.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” Jules gasped, their breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “Keaton, I?—”