Page 37 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

For a moment, Jules let themselves lean into the comfort of it.

The steady rhythm of Keaton’s thumb against their skin, the familiar scent of his laundry soap, the gentle hush of the apartment—it all conspired to remind them that they didn’t have to perform here, didn’t have to be anything but present.

Every slow exhale loosened something inside them, the knot of worry giving way to a softer ache, one that felt almost manageable.

Keaton shifted just enough to make room, his shoulder a quiet invitation. Jules hesitated only a heartbeat before sliding closer, letting their guard slip a little further. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It didn’t need to be.

Jules drew in a careful breath, pressing their cheek to Keaton’s shoulder, letting his steadiness anchor them. The thrum of his heart, the warmth at their side, the unfussy patience in the way he held Jules—all of it worked its way through the last of their defenses.

For the first time in days, Jules didn’t feel like they were about to unravel.

They just felt cherished. Without thinking, they squeezed Keaton’s hand, grounding themselves in the warmth of his palm.

Then Jules leaned in, letting their head settle against his shoulder.

The tension in their body unwound, slow and stubborn, until all that remained was the quiet reassurance of Keaton’s heartbeat, steady beneath their ear.

They stayed like that, tucked into the corner of the couch, the world narrowing to the hush between them and the soft give of Keaton’s shirt under Jules’s cheek. No deadlines. No pitches. Just the gentle rhythm of breathing together, letting the silence become something safe.

After a while, Jules’s voice came out small but certain. “Can we just…stay like this for a bit?”

Keaton’s arm tightened around them, just enough to answer. “As long as you need.”

Jules was just beginning to drift, cheek pressed to Keaton’s shoulder, when their phone buzzed insistently from the coffee table. They tensed, holding their breath, hoping it would stop.

It didn’t.

The past couple of weeks had been emotionally draining, a problem they now realized was of their own making, and they felt like they were finally coming down. Now, the outside world threatened to burst the protective bubble Keaton held them in.

Keaton squeezed their hand. “You can let it go to voicemail,” he murmured, voice gentle, but Jules knew better.

It was their mom’s ringtone—the one with the birdsong that always made them smile.

They’d been avoiding her calls for nearly a week because if she realized something was off, she’d blame herself.

Jules’s emotional state wasn’t her fault.

They pulled away just enough to answer, curling into the far corner of the couch for a thin illusion of privacy. “Hey, Mom,” Jules said, trying for bright but landing somewhere closer to brittle.

Her mom’s voice was warm and familiar, painting pictures of sunlit kitchens and the smell of rosemary. “Hi, sweetheart! Just checking in. How’s the mural coming? Are you eating? I know you tend to try and live on nothing but coffee and air when you get busy.”

Jules’s laugh wobbled. “It’s…coming. I’m working on it.

Some days, I feel like I bit off more than I can chew with this one, but that’s just because everything is still in stages.

And yes, Keaton made sure I ate.” They glanced at him, grateful for the way he pretended not to listen, thumb idly tracing circles on their knee.

Their mom was quiet for a moment, the way she always was when she was choosing her words. “We’re proud of you, you know. Your dad keeps showing everyone the photos you sent over. It’s okay if you need to take a break, Jules. You don’t have to do it all at once.”

The words landed like a balm, yet Jules’s chest ached with the pressure to prove they deserved that pride. “I want to make you proud,” they whispered, voice barely audible.

What they didn’t say was that this mural felt like an opportunity to prove to their parents they weren’t somehow falling apart with everything that had happened and them being so far away. Which was silly because Jules had never had those fears when they’d been the one to leave Maple Hill.

“You already do,” she said, fierce and soft all at once. “Just take care of yourself, okay? The mural will wait. We love you more than anything you make.”

Jules blinked hard, fighting the sting behind their eyes. “Love you too, Mom. Tell Dad I’ll call soon.”

As the call ended, Jules let the phone slip from their hand, the weight of expectations a little lighter.

Keaton was there, still steady, still silent.

He opened his arms in invitation, and Jules let themselves be pulled back in, letting the warmth of his embrace chase away the last of the chill.

They crawled into his lap, needing to feel as connected to him as possible.

Later, Keaton nudged them up off the couch. “Come on. Let’s make something easy for dinner. Grilled cheese, maybe?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were careful, checking for permission.

Jules managed a smile. “Only if you promise not to burn it this time.”

“I make no promises,” Keaton deadpanned, and that—finally—earned a real laugh from Jules.

It felt good to joke around when everything felt so heavy.

Keaton had only burned their sandwiches once, but he’d burned them badly enough that the smoke detector had started blaring.

Then again, that might have been Jules’s fault since they’d distracted him.

“But I did pick up some tomatoes and basil, so we’re not just eating cheese and bread again. ”

It was true they’d eaten more than their fair share of grilled cheese sandwiches lately.

It was like Keaton had seen how much Jules liked the simplicity of the meal, and now that was all he cooked.

It was sweet. And it didn’t get boring because Keaton was constantly trying to find ways to make each sandwich unique.

They moved around the kitchen together, falling into the easy rhythm of domesticity. Keaton buttered bread while Jules sliced the ball of mozzarella as thinly as possible, humming along with the song on the radio.

“You know, maybe what you need to do is forget all about what other people want from your art,” Keaton suggested as they ate.

”People love your creations because your imagination creates beauty.

Keep giving them more of that and ignore their not-at-all-helpful suggestions unless they’re paying you to do something specific. ”

Jules looked up, cocking their head to the side as if the idea hadn’t even crossed their mind. Because it hadn’t. Ever since the first person had approached them at the Art Crawl, they’d been obsessed with what they thought others wanted.

“What’s that look for?” Keaton asked when Jules just stared at him.

“I’m an idiot,” Jules mumbled. They started picking at the crust of their sandwich.”You say that, and it sounds like the most obvious solution ever.”

Keaton pushed back from the table and moved behind Jules, bending to kiss the top of their head.

”Not an idiot, just overthinking things.

Art doesn’t have to be something you do for others or for yourself.

There’s room for both. How about I take care of the cleanup and you unwind?

It’s been too long since you chilled with your pencils.

I’m sure your sketchbook has a layer of dust on it. ”

Jules twisted around, shooting Keaton a playful glare. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“Close enough.”

After dinner, Jules found themselves at the kitchen table with a sketchbook, pencil in hand.

Keaton hovered nearby, drying dishes, glancing over every so often with a small, encouraging smile.

The page stayed mostly blank, but the act of moving the pencil—just doodling shapes, lines, nothing for anyone but them—felt like breathing for the first time all day.

Keaton set a mug of tea beside them. “What do you love most about it?” he asked quietly.”What was the thing that made you fall in love with art?”

Jules considered, watching the steam curl from the mug. “The way it feels when I lose myself in it. When it’s just me and the paper, and nothing else matters. I want to find my way back there.”

“You will,” Keaton said, voice certain. “You don’t have to do it for anyone else. Just for you. That’s enough.”

Something in Jules eased. They closed the sketchbook, not because they were finished, but because—for the first time in days—they weren’t afraid of starting again tomorrow.

When Keaton suggested they go to bed early, Jules didn’t protest. They let themselves be led down the hall, the day’s anxieties softened by the promise of rest and the quiet reassurance of Keaton’s presence.

They weren’t sure what tomorrow would bring, or what they’d decide about their art, but tonight, it was enough to be held—to be known, and wanted, exactly as they were.

And for now, that was more than enough.