Page 39 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

The cool air against his skin was a stark contrast to the heat of Jules’s touch. Keaton lay there, naked and vulnerable, but he felt no shame, only a deep sense of trust and connection. Jules’s eyes met his, filled with a mixture of desire and tenderness.

Jules’s hands slid up Keaton’s thighs, fingers tracing the sensitive skin, making him shiver with anticipation.

When Jules finally wrapped their hand around his cock, Keaton let out a low groan, his hips instinctively thrusting forward.

Jules’s touch was firm and confident, stroking him slowly, building the tension with each deliberate movement.

Keaton reached out, his hands finding Jules’s hips, pulling them closer.

He loved the weight of Jules’s body on top of him, the softness of their skin, and the hardness of their own desire pressing against him.

He curled his hand around the back of Jules’s neck, capturing Jules’s lips in a deep, passionate kiss, tasting the sweetness of their mouth.

The room was filled with the sound of their breaths and the soft moans of pleasure that escaped their lips. Keaton felt a sense of completeness, a connection that went beyond the physical, an unbreakable bond.

“Fuck, Jules,” he growled, breath stuttering at how easy it was for them to unravel him with nothing but a touch. “If you don’t get your hands or mouth on my dick, I’m going to blow untouched and embarrass myself.”

Jules’s mouth curved into a smile—mischief and adoration tangled up together. “You’re bossy,” they whispered, voice low and sweet and daring him to deny it. Their smile softened, turned almost shy as they pressed a kiss to the curve of his jaw. “But I like you best like this. Slow. Sweet.”

Keaton grinned—wry, a little feral. “Sweet? That’s not what you said last night.” He let his fingers trail between their legs, featherlight. Jules shivered, head falling back, throat bared and vulnerable.

“Touch me, Keaton,” they breathed, voice breaking on the need. “Please.”

He obeyed, wrapping his hand around their cock again, stroking slow, thumb circling the head. Jules’s hips jerked, breath catching on a soft curse. “God, yes—just like that.”

Keaton pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along their throat, down to their collarbone, tracing the lines of their tattoo with his tongue. “You always get so needy when you’re tired,” he murmured, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good.”

Jules whimpered, those long, lovely legs wrapping around his hips as soon as Keaton flipped them onto their back, heels digging into his ass, urging him closer.

Keaton rocked against them, letting their cocks slide together, sticky and slick.

He watched Jules’s face—every flicker of pleasure, every tremor of overwhelm—and let his own want show, unfiltered.

“Tell me what you need,” Keaton rasped, his hand working Jules’s cock in slow, firm strokes. “You want me to fuck you? Want my cock inside you, filling you up until you forget everything but me?”

Jules’s eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide. “Yes. I need it. I want to feel you—just you. Nothing else.”

Keaton pressed a kiss to their lips, then slid off the bed long enough to snatch the bottle of lube from the drawer. He knelt between Jules’s thighs, spreading them wide. He slicked his fingers, eyes locked on Jules’s as he circled their hole, pressing in slow, letting them adjust to the stretch.

Jules gasped, hands fisting in the sheets. “You’re teasing,” they accused, but their voice shook with anticipation.

“Damn right,” Keaton said with a crooked smile. “You need to be unraveled sometimes. Let me.”

He worked them open slowly, two fingers twisting, curling, coaxing moans from Jules until their hips rolled up, desperate for more. Keaton’s own cock ached, heavy and flushed, but he held back—this was about Jules, about giving them a place to fall apart and be put back together.

When Jules was loose and panting, pleading, Keaton rolled on a condom, slicked himself, and lined up, pushing inside in one long, slow glide. Jules’s legs tightened around his waist, drawing him deeper, and Keaton groaned, the heat and tightness almost enough to unravel his careful control.

He braced himself above Jules, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other wrapped around Jules’s cock, stroking in rhythm with his thrusts. He kept his eyes locked on theirs, needing to see every shiver, every tremor, every bit of trust.

“God, you feel so good,” Keaton ground out, voice rough with feeling. “So perfect for me. Let go, Jules. Let me see you.”

Their hands tangled in Keaton’s hair, mouth open in a soundless cry as their body rocked with each thrust. Keaton felt the tension melting from their muscles. They clung to Keaton as if he were the only thing keeping them tethered to reality.

Keaton pressed kisses everywhere he could reach—shoulder, cheek, the damp line of their jaw. “You’re safe,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jules’s orgasm hit first, sudden and shattering, their cock jerking in Keaton’s fist as they spilled across their belly. Their body clamped down around him, and Keaton followed with a groan, hips stuttering as he emptied himself, forehead pressed to Jules’s shoulder, breath coming hard and hot.

For a long moment, they stayed tangled together, sweat-slick and trembling, the outside world falling away. Keaton withdrew carefully, disposing of the condom, then crawled back up to gather Jules in his arms, pulling them close until their heartbeats synced and their breathing slowed.

Jules rested their head on Keaton’s chest, tracing lazy, contented circles on his skin. “Thank you,” they murmured, voice sleepy and sated. “For listening. For seeing me. For loving me—even when I’m a mess.”

Keaton pressed a kiss to the crown of their head, his hand rubbing slow circles over their back. “Always,” he promised. “You get to be as messy as you need. I’m not looking for perfect. I’m looking for you.”

Keaton woke to the hush he’d always loved about early mornings, the world on pause, everything soft-edged and weightless for a few precious minutes. This had always been his favorite time of day, but having the luxury of watching Jules sleep was something he hadn’t realized he was missing out on.

They slept on their side, tangled in a mess of sheets, hair sticking up at improbable angles.

Their mouth was parted in a gentle sigh, one hand curled against Keaton’s chest as if afraid he might vanish if they let go.

It was the first time in a week they looked truly content and unbothered by the stress they’d been carrying around.

For a while, Keaton didn’t move. He just watched Jules breathe. Awe pooled low in his chest, an ache that wasn’t pain so much as astonishment that he was here, in this bed, with someone who trusted him enough to show him their vulnerabilities, trusted Keaton to take care of them.

He let the spell hold him a little longer.

Finally, he slid from the bed, careful not to disturb them.

The air was cool against his skin. Jules’s hoodie hung from the armchair.

Keaton pulled it on, sleeves stretching tight across his forearms. He wasn’t in any hurry to go out for a run this morning, preferring to be here when Jules woke up.

He padded barefoot to the kitchen, phone forgotten on the counter from the night before. As the coffee brewed, Keaton checked his notifications out of habit. There, between a text from Finn about a missing invoice and an unread email from his mother, sat a new message flagged urgent.

Subject line: RIVERS: GALLERY SHOW INTEREST—REPLY ASAP .

Keaton stared, heart thudding. The sender was the gallery owner Jules had met at the Art Crawl, the one they’d called “too polished to be real.” The one who’d then reached out to Keaton, hoping he could somehow convince Jules to put together a show.

He scrolled, reading the clipped, enthusiastic sentences:

Hello Keaton,

Thank you for speaking with me yesterday and for offering to pass along my message to Jules. I appreciate your help since I didn’t have a way to contact them directly.

We would be delighted to feature Jules’s work in our upcoming emerging artists show. Please let us know if they are available for a meeting next week. Timing is tight, but their mural truly stood out, especially in light of their apparent lack of formal training.

I hope to hear from you soon!

Keaton’s first instinct was to wake Jules and tell them right away.

But then last night’s meltdown slammed to the forefront of his mind, how raw Jules had been, how easily hope turned to pressure, and he stopped short.

This was good news, but it was also another decision, another thing for Jules to carry.

He closed the email and turned back to the coffee.

He poured coffee into two mugs, adding the oat milk creamer Jules liked to their favorite chipped mug. Jules shuffled out a minute later, rubbing sleep from their eyes, hair flattened on one side. They wore nothing but Keaton’s shirt and an uncertain expression.

“Morning,” Keaton said, voice softer than usual.

Jules blinked blearily, then smiled—a tiny thing, but real. “You’re up early. Did I snore?”

“Only a little. But it was cute.”

Jules rolled their eyes but let him tug them close, warm against his side. “You made coffee. Heroic.”

Keaton pressed a kiss to their hair, then hesitated, weighing the moment.

“There’s something you should see.” He offered his phone, thumb hovering over the message.

“I debated even showing you this, but it doesn’t feel right to keep it from you.

The gallery reached out. They want to feature you in an upcoming show.

There’s a meeting next week if you’re interested. ”

Jules stiffened—a twitch of wide-eyed panic, quickly masked. “That’s…wow. That’s a huge opportunity.”

“Yeah.” Keaton didn’t let go. “You don’t have to decide now.

I just wanted you to know. And whatever you choose, I’m here.

No pressure. If it’s something you want to do but you feel like it’s too much work, tell me how I can help you.

And if you want to tell him you’re not interested, that’s fine too. I will support your decision.”

He was probably going a bit overboard, but after last night, he wanted to make sure Jules knew he’d heard what they were saying.

Jules stared at the phone, then at their coffee, then at Keaton. “What if I’m not ready for this? Or if I change my mind?”

He squeezed their hand. “Then you change your mind. The only thing that matters is that you’re okay. If you’re curious, take the meeting. If this isn’t the right time because you need to take care of yourself first, I’ll tell him you’re not available. Whatever happens, you won’t face it alone.”

Jules let out a breath, some of the tension easing from their shoulders. “I want to do it, but I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Keaton brushed his thumb along their jaw, gentle as a vow. “You’re more than ready. And if you need help, you’ve got me. That’s not going to change. I’m sure Paige will help too. She probably knows more about this stuff than I do.”

Jules nodded, finally letting their body relax into his. The world outside would start spinning soon—emails, deadlines, expectations. But here, in the hush of morning, it was enough to be two people holding and choosing each other, no matter what came next.

He let out a sigh of relief, glad he’d successfully navigated a field of landmines.

Maybe they’d be okay. Keaton would learn how to respect Jules’s boundaries, and Jules would learn to trust that Keaton would always be there to help them achieve their dreams. He put two pieces of bread in the toaster, deciding that since he wasn’t going for his run, he’d handle breakfast this morning.

Jules caught him watching and grinned, a slanting, crooked thing that reached their eyes. “You’re staring,” they accused, voice still lazy with sleep.

“Maybe.” Keaton shrugged, not bothering to hide his smile. “I don’t get to see you like this very often. I’m usually out on my run while you’re waking up. You look like you’re plotting out world domination or something.”

Jules snorted, dropping their phone onto the table. “World domination’s overrated. I can barely dominate the laundry. Speaking of which, do you have anything dirty in the bed of your truck? I’m going to start a load after breakfast.”

Keaton shook his head, still smiling at the sight of Jules wrapped in his too-big hoodie, looking more at home than anyone had a right to this early. “I think I’m good, but I’ll double-check. You’re on a roll this morning.”

Jules rolled their eyes, but the corners of their mouth tugged up, soft and real.

“It’s called productive avoidance. If I’m folding towels, I don’t have to think about emails or whether I’m about to ruin my life by agreeing to a gallery show when I’ve never done more than hang my art at Shelf Care Central for the locals to see. ”

Keaton reached over, pressing his palm to the back of Jules’s hand, grounding them both. “You’re not going to ruin anything. And if things go sideways, I’ll be there to remind you how amazing you really are.”

A small silence stretched between them—not awkward, just full of possibility.

The only sounds were the hum of the fridge and the faint whir of the washing machine starting up down the hall.

It felt like the world had shrunk to the kitchen, to the warmth of shared coffee and the comfort of not having to face big decisions alone.

Jules glanced up, their eyes searching his face. “You really mean that?”

He nodded, squeezing their fingers. “I do. Whatever happens next, I’m here. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Jules let out a breath, shoulders relaxing as if they’d finally set down a weight they’d been carrying for too long. “Okay. One step at a time.”

Keaton grinned, feeling something settle in his chest—hope, maybe, or just the knowledge that they were moving forward, together. He didn’t need to say anything else. The quiet between them was enough, a promise that whatever came next, neither of them had to face it alone.