Page 36 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

FIFTEEN

Jules pressed their forehead to the cool passenger window, watching the world slip by in streaks of early summer color—lawns greening, gardens blooming in wide, messy bursts.

The truck’s engine hummed beneath them, a steady vibration that should have been soothing, but only made their legs jitter with restlessness.

They pulled their sleeve down over their knuckles, thumb worrying at a loose thread, trying to anchor themselves to something small and manageable.

Keaton was silent beside them, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift.

He drove the way he did everything—deliberate, unhurried, as if he believed going slow enough might keep the whole world from falling apart.

Jules glanced at him from the corner of their eye, tracking the muscle that flexed in his jaw every time he shifted gears, the faint crease between his brows that meant he was thinking too hard.

The radio played low—some indie folk singer crooning about coming home, the kind of background noise that usually made Jules feel safe. Today, it sounded like a dare. Are you really home ? Or are you just pretending ?

They wrapped their hands tighter around the plastic cup in their lap, feeling the chill from the melted ice sweat against their palms. The scent of lavender and chai turned their stomach despite it being one of their favorite drinks. When had comfort started feeling like pressure?

Shouldn’t you be happy?

Shouldn’t you be grateful?

The thought looped in their mind, sharp as a pebble in their shoe.

This—commissions, a mural, people actually knowing their name at the market—was what they’d wanted, wasn’t it?

They remembered promising themselves, months ago, that if anyone ever noticed, they’d rise to the occasion.

Smile, say thank you, make it look easy.

But now, every time someone stopped them— You’re the mural artist, right?

—Jules felt their chest go tight, like a rope cinching a little closer each time.

They’d smile, say, “Yeah, that’s me,” and then spend the rest of the day wishing they could crawl back into the anonymous mess of their old bedroom, where nobody expected anything except maybe a few dirty coffee mugs and half-finished sketches.

Keaton glanced over, just once, the way he did when he was trying not to intrude but couldn’t help himself.

Jules stared hard at the window, tracking their reflection in the glass.

They wanted to say something, anything to break the tension—some joke about the world’s most awkward silent car ride, or how they’d kill for one day without a to-do list—but the words stuck.

All they could manage was another half-swallow of chai, lukewarm and unsatisfying.

God, you begged for this, didn’t you? All those years wishing someone would notice. Now they have, and you’re terrified. Typical.

Their mouth twisted, almost a smile. Keaton’s belief in them was…heavy. They wanted to live up to it, to everything he saw when he looked at them.

A flash of the bakery mural outside—the bold colors, the way people lingered to watch whenever they worked on it—caught Jules’s attention as they passed.

It should have filled them with pride. Instead, it felt like a spotlight, bright and hot, making them want to shrink smaller, blend into the seat.

Keaton’s hand eased off the gearshift, resting palm-up on the bench seat between them. He didn’t say anything, didn’t push. Just left it there, an offering. Jules stared at it, heart thumping, but didn’t reach out. Not yet. Not when every nerve felt raw and too close to the surface.

For the rest of the ride, neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn’t angry or cold—just thick, like fog, full of everything Jules couldn’t quite say.

By the time Keaton pulled into the parking lot, Jules’s hands were stiff from gripping the cup, but the heaviness in their chest had settled into something quieter. Not gone, but bearable.

They weren’t sure if that counted as progress. But when Keaton offered his hand as they climbed out, Jules took it. Just for a moment, just to feel the steadiness of skin against skin. And for the first time all morning, the world didn’t feel quite so sharp.

Jules stepped inside and stopped short, the keys slipping from their hand into the bowl with a clatter that echoed louder than it should have.

They hovered in the entryway, shoulders tight.

Keaton’s presence lingered a step behind, steady but careful—not crowding, not coaxing, just waiting.

The space between them felt charged, every breath loaded with things unsaid.

Jules curled their fingers into their palm, searching for something solid to hang on to, but all they could feel was the press of expectations—commissions, deadlines, the mural waiting unfinished, and Keaton’s quiet faith in them, heavy as a hand at their throat.

The apartment should have felt safe. Instead, it felt like they were standing on a precipice, waiting for the ground to shift.

Keaton hovered by the door, silent but present. He didn’t crowd, didn’t fill the space with questions. He just waited—one hand on the doorframe, the other loose at his side, thumb absently tracing the seam of his jeans. The patience in his posture was a comfort and a challenge.

Jules pressed their back against the wall, arms folded tight across their chest. The pressure helped, a little, but not enough to keep the ache at bay.

Words crowded behind their teeth, all the things that were running riot in their mind, but none of them came out.

Their throat felt too narrow, like the air itself was thickening.

Keaton’s voice was low, careful. “You want to talk, or just sit a minute?”

The kindness in it made Jules’s eyes sting. They shook their head, a jerky motion. “I…I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I need right now.”

Keaton nodded. He didn’t step closer, just let the silence hold for a beat. “That’s okay. You don’t have to know.”

Jules squeezed their arms tighter, staring at the pattern on the rug.

“I should be happy. I should feel grateful. This—” They gestured vaguely, encompassing Keaton, the commissions, the mural, everything that had come crashing down on them lately.

“This is what I wanted. All of it. So why do I feel like I’m about to come apart? ”

The words were out before they could catch them, raw and a little shaky. But the truth of them felt like relief. They risked a glance at Keaton, bracing for disappointment or confusion. Instead, they found only steady concern.

“I thought I was ready,” Jules went on, voice softer now.

“I remember swearing that if anyone showed interest in my work, I’d seize the opportunity with everything I had.

And now people have. They stop me on the street, ask about the mural, want to know what’s next.

And I just…freeze. I want to crawl back into bed and make art for myself, not for anyone else. ”

Keaton’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt. He just nodded, like he understood.

Jules let out a shaky breath. “I know you believe in me. I love that you do. But sometimes it feels like if I try selling my art and it’s a flop, I’ll walk away from it completely. I’m scared I’ll let you down. Or worse, that I’ll stop loving the creation process if I can’t work at my own pace.”

Keaton finally moved, not rushing, just closing the distance enough to lean his shoulder against the wall beside Jules. He kept his hands in his pockets, giving them space.

“You don’t have to be anything but yourself.

Not for me.” His voice was quiet but sure.

“If you want to slow down, say no, or just make art for yourself for a while, that’s more than okay.

I’m here, no matter what you decide. And the only way you’d ever let me down is if you push yourself so hard you have a breakdown.

You’re precious to me, and I hate that you’re feeling this way. ”

A knot loosened in Jules’s chest, just a little. They blinked hard, willing the sting behind their eyes to fade. “You mean that?”

“I do.” Keaton’s mouth twitched at the corner, almost a smile. “I’m not with you because you’re some kind of project. I want to be here—at your side, not ahead of you, not shoving you along.”

Jules nodded, relief and something like hope warring inside them. They let their arms drop, fingers flexing at their sides. “I want that too. I just need to go at my own speed. I don’t want to disappear, Keaton. I just… I need to remember why I started all this in the first place.”

“Then we’ll stop rushing,” he said, voice almost a rumble. “We’ll breathe. We’ve got time.”

Keaton reached for Jules’s hand, slow and gentle, giving them every chance to pull away.

Their fingers twined, the contact grounding, and then Keaton coaxed them toward the couch.

Jules let themselves be led, the weight of expectation making their shoulders ache.

Keaton sat beside them, close but not crowding, thumb tracing lazy circles over Jules’s knuckles—solid, real.

“Sit with me a minute,” Keaton murmured, voice low and steady, like he believed rest was something Jules deserved.

Jules settled onto the couch beside Keaton, their muscles slow to relax, as if their body didn’t quite trust the sudden absence of urgency.

The quiet felt different now—less of a weight, more of a blanket.

Keaton didn’t try to fill it. He just sat close, their joined hands resting in the space between them, warm and certain.