Page 38 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

SIXTEEN

Keaton led the way down the hallway, his heartbeat unsteady beneath his ribs. Jules’s fingers remained loosely tangled with his, not quite holding on but not letting go either. It was a tenuous connection that felt both familiar and fragile after everything they’d shared tonight.

Keaton couldn’t remember ever being as scared of a conversation as he’d been when Jules said they couldn’t keep doing this. His stomach had lurched, and it had taken everything in him to keep from pleading with Jules to tell them what was going on.

Jules had been quiet and distant most of the week.

Keaton had wanted them to open up, but hadn’t known how to approach the subject without making things worse.

And when they finally did talk, it had set off an emotional avalanche for both of them.

There was fear in thinking Jules was pulling away from him.

Relief when he realized they were just processing their own insecurities.

Then guilt, knowing his encouragement had contributed to Jules’s anxiety and uncertainty, no matter his intentions.

When Jules had snuggled into his side…the world had finally felt like it was righting itself.

He loved those quiet moments doing nothing but holding this person who’d come to mean so much to him.

When he’d suggested they go to bed, Jules had looked at him with such vulnerable need in their eyes that Keaton had to fight the urge to cheer.

But now that they stood together with only a door keeping them from bed, he was having second thoughts.

He paused at the bedroom door, not out of reluctance but from a need to check in.

This wasn’t their first time crossing this threshold together, but today felt different—heavier with significance after Jules had finally voiced the pressure they’d been feeling.

When he turned to look at them, the vulnerability in their eyes made his chest ache.

“I need you to tell me what you want,” Keaton insisted, his voice rough around the edges. He wasn’t questioning their desire for him, but making sure they weren’t seeking physical connection just to avoid the emotional rawness they’d exposed in the living room.

Jules’s eyes met his, unblinking and unguarded.

Exhaustion pooled in their gaze, but something more heated threaded through: need, stripped bare of pretense.

“I need you ,” they said, voice quiet and raw.

“I need to know we’re okay. That you don’t think I’m a basket case because I’m getting everything I want and don’t always handle it well. ”

The words struck something soft inside Keaton, like a hand pressed gently to a fresh bruise.

Their brutal honesty left no room for armor or avoidance.

He nodded, his throat thick. That was all he’d ever wanted too—something real enough to hold on to, even when life threatened to spin them both apart.

He pushed open the door to the room he now thought of as theirs, the scent of his cologne and Jules’s body wash mixed with sweat, the memory of their morning creased into the tangled sheets.

The sight of another of Jules’s sketchbooks beside his reading glasses on the nightstand, one page turned to a half-finished colored pencil sketch—a riot of vibrance bleeding into the blankness—felt intimate in a way that no grand gesture could match.

Jules slipped past him, fingers trailing across the dresser, shoulders loose now as if letting themselves be seen, truly seen, had siphoned off some of the tension.

The lamplight gilded their hair and caught on the faint gold flecks in their eyes as they looked up at him, equal parts question and invitation.

They sat at the edge of the bed, legs splayed, their body open for him. “Come here.”

Keaton crossed the room, compelled by a need that never let him resist. He fit himself between Jules’s knees, letting their hands settle on his hips.

Their fingers tugged him closer, thumbs finding the sharp ridge of his bones, grounding him where the rest of the world felt untethered.

He cupped their jaw, his thumb tracing the arc of cheekbone.

He could see how this week had hollowed them out, but underneath was something stubborn—survival and trust.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and rough as gravel. “I should have seen it sooner. Should’ve noticed you were on the verge of burning out. I never want to push you into anything you aren’t ready for.”

Jules leaned into his hand, closing their eyes. “I should have told you before it got this bad.”

“We’re both learning,” Keaton said. It was a phrase they’d passed back and forth in softer moments, a reminder that neither of them was perfect, but both were worth the effort. He pressed his lips to their forehead, letting the touch stand in for further apology.

Jules’s fingers slipped beneath his shirt, cold and searching but steady. They held his waist, not to claim but to anchor. “I just want to be yours,” they whispered, voice trembling at the edges, “without having to think about what anyone expects of me.”

The confession undid him. He’d watched Jules bloom under attention—the regulars at Brew & Barrel who requested Jules as their server, the praise from parents who trusted Jules with their kids, the way people in town looked at them and saw the artist, not just the odd kid from the farm at the edge of town.

But behind every accolade, Keaton saw the way the spotlight sometimes left Jules blinking, unmoored, as if the brighter they shone, the further away their own edges slid.

He’d been proud. But he’d missed the toll it had taken—the exhaustion of being “on,” the fear of being too much, or not enough.

He wanted to give Jules the safety to fall apart a little, if that’s what they needed. He wanted to prove, over and over, that loving them wasn’t conditional on their productivity or their perfection.

He leaned down until their foreheads touched, until there was nothing between them but breath. “You’re real to me,” Keaton murmured. “Messy, brilliant, chaotic—you. That’s what I want.”

A faint, crooked smile ghosted across Jules’s lips, the first naked, honest joy he’d seen from them all day.

Their hands lifted his shirt, palms working up the planes of his back, fingertips memorizing the ridges of muscle, the heat of his body.

Not frantic, just reverent. “Show me,” they said, barely more than a breath.

He bent to kiss them—soft first, just the press of his mouth to theirs, letting everything else fall away.

Jules opened to him, lips parting, and Keaton deepened the kiss, letting his tongue slide slow and searching, tasting the exhaustion, the hope, the trust. Jules’s hands mapped his skin, nails scratching lightly at his ribs, drawing him close until their bodies pressed together, heat building between them.

Keaton’s hands slid down to the waistband of their shorts, pausing—a silent check-in.

Jules arched, hips lifting from the bed, wordless consent shimmering in their eyes.

He peeled the shorts down, slow, baring them inch by inch, savoring the way their breath hitched, their thighs parting in invitation.

He traced his palms up the length of their thighs, relishing the pulse of need that thrummed through both of them.

Keaton let his gaze drift down Jules’s body, drinking them in like he might never get another chance.

He wanted to memorize every inch—every freckle, every scar, each place he knew would make Jules shiver or sigh if he touched them just right.

He let his hands slip lower, slow and deliberate, relishing the way Jules watched him with wide, trusting eyes.

No hiding, not now. Not when everything between them was stripped bare and trembling with need.

“Look at you,” Keaton breathed, voice gone rough with want and something more dangerous—possessive, greedy, adoring all at once. “So fucking gorgeous. Always.”

He stepped closer, spreading Jules’s legs to stand between them.

He could feel the heat radiating from Jules, the tremble of anticipation in their muscles.

Leaning down, he pressed his forehead to Jules’s, their breaths mingling.

Jules curled their hands around the backs of Keaton’s legs, urging him forward until he collapsed on top of Jules.

“I need you to feel how much I want you,” Keaton murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.

” He let his hands slide up Jules’s thighs, slow and deliberate, relishing the way Jules watched him with wide, trusting eyes.

No hiding, not now. Not when everything between them was stripped bare and trembling with need.

Jules’s hands slid beneath Keaton’s shirt, fingertips hot and impatient.

Keaton got the hint when Jules pushed him to the side.

He raised his arms, surrendering, and let Jules peel the shirt over his head.

The air hit his skin, cool where their hands had been, and then Jules’s palms landed flat against his chest. They dragged their thumbs over Keaton’s nipples, slow and teasing, coaxing a gasp from deep in his chest.

Jules’s touch was electric, sending shivers down Keaton’s spine.

He could feel the heat radiating off Jules as they leaned in, their breath warm against his skin.

Jules’s fingers trailed down Keaton’s torso, tracing the lines of his muscles, exploring every inch of him as if it were a sacred ground.

Keaton’s heart raced as Jules’s hands moved lower, unbuttoning his jeans with a deliberate slowness that was both tantalizing and torturous.

He could feel the tension building, the anticipation of what was to come.

Jules’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down along with his boxers, exposing him completely.