Page 42 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

EIGHTEEN

The keys felt heavier than they should in Jules’s palm, the brand-new tag curled around the ring like a paper tail.

They hovered at the threshold of the new apartment, heart skipping out of time.

They were still trying to remember this was what they wanted, that moving out of Keaton’s wasn’t the end of their relationship, but now that they were actually moving, it was hard to see this as anything but a huge leap backward.

Behind them, Keaton stood with a box labeled Kitchen Stuff (Essentials + Secret Snacks) , his smile crooked at one corner, sunburned arms flexed just enough to prove he could carry three more boxes if he needed to.

Both of them were a bit worse for wear after having spent all day yesterday at the lake.

That had been Keaton’s idea, a gesture meant to prove this was a new beginning for them.

Jules let the key rest, tracing the serrated edge with their thumb.

The painted door looked bluer in the hallway light.

Jules pressed their forehead to the cool frame, just for a second, steadying.

This was it. Their own place. No parents down the hall, no Keaton in the kitchen brewing coffee before dawn.

No one’s routines but their own, stretching out ahead like a blank page waiting for the first bold line.

Behind them, Keaton cleared his throat, the sound gentle but unmistakably amused. “You gonna stare it open, or was I supposed to put in a mind-activated lock?”

A huff of laughter slipped out before Jules could stop it. “Don’t start. I’m sure if it existed, you’d already have it at your place. But no, I don’t need my house to start doing things for me. Knowing my luck, I’d wake up in the middle of the night to the lights strobing like a nightclub.”

“Could be handy,” Keaton said, shifting the box and pretending not to be hovering. “I can always install a disco ball if you want. Very subtle. Tasteful.”

Jules rolled their eyes, but the teasing steadied them, gave them hope that everything was going to be okay.

They slid the key into the lock, twisting until the bolt gave way with a heavy click, the sound only filling them with a little trepidation.

The air inside was crisp, tinged with citrus cleaning spray and a faint echo of paint, the kind of fresh that could only last until life started happening in earnest. Light from the large windows slanted across the wood floor, pooling in unfamiliar corners, catching on dust motes they’d swear only moved when someone was watching.

They stepped in first. The box in Keaton’s arms bumped their hip, and for a second, Jules almost apologized for being in the way.

Instead, they squared their shoulders, forcing a crooked grin.

“Don’t get too comfortable. There’s a box labeled Random Nonsense with your name on it.

You’re going to regret ever teaching me how to organize with sticky notes. ”

Keaton followed, pausing in the entryway, his own keys jangling in his pocket. “As long as it’s not full of glitter,” he said with a flash of fondness that softened the edge of his mouth. “I’m still finding it in my truck from the last art workshop.”

“Occupational hazard,” Jules shot back, nerves threaded through the humor.

They nudged a box aside with their foot, making a path through the scattered chaos.

The apartment wasn’t much—one bedroom, the kind of generic white trim that begged for color—but as Jules crossed the empty living room, their pulse quickened.

Each step felt like claiming something, even if their palms were starting to sweat.

They considered for a moment the care Keaton had taken building out this unit just for them.

There were subtle details they doubted were in the other units.

Jules wondered for a moment if Ollie had been right that he and Keaton living separately was a temporary step in their relationship, and if Keaton might eventually want to move in here.

But they’d need a bigger unit, and Jules wasn’t sure they’d be able to give up the view from this corner unit.

Keaton moved quietly, setting the kitchen box on the counter.

He watched Jules, hands at his sides as if he were reminding himself not to start rearranging cabinets or offering advice on furniture placement.

There was a kind of tension there, not the old, anxious kind, but something more hopeful, like he was rooting for them to get it right on their own.

Jules glanced around, letting the quiet settle.

The place sounded different from anywhere else they’d lived, every footfall, every shuffle of cardboard amplified.

It was crazy to think no one had occupied this space before them.

Sure, there was the past life of the building, but everything felt new thanks to the renovations Keaton and his crew had done.

The only thing reminiscent of the past was the exterior walls.

The difference between empty and alone had never felt quite so sharp.

Their chest squeezed, but underneath the prickling nerves was a stubborn streak of pride.

This was all theirs. No one to defer to, no one’s preferences to consider but their own.

Keaton broke the silence first, his voice low, almost gentle. “You’re the boss today. I’m officially muscle-for-hire.”

Jules’s lips quirked, a real smile blooming at the edges. “Yeah, we’ll see how that works out. If you leave me to my own devices, I might not unpack for months.”

“Whatever you need, I’m at your service.” Keaton tipped an imaginary hat—deferential, just a little playful. His restraint was obvious, but Jules found they appreciated it more than they’d expected.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Jules let their gaze travel over the sealed boxes, a battered plant perched by the window, the open space where a couch would eventually go.

The urge to ask Keaton where he thought the rug should go fluttered at the back of their mind.

Instead, they took a slow breath and reached for the box marked Art Stuff , grounding themself in the rightness of claiming the space.

The rug could stay propped against the wall until Keaton and Luke brought the furniture over from the storage room later.

Jules was grateful now that Keaton had convinced them to put anything they wanted to keep into storage rather than starting fresh when the apartment was move-in ready.

The apartment was still just a collection of rooms. But with each step, Jules felt their own shape settle into the walls, imperfect and real.

The echo of their footsteps wasn’t loneliness, it was possibility, and for the first time in a long while, it felt like they’d stepped over a threshold and found themself right where they belonged.

Jules worked their way through the mountain of boxes, the ones from his childhood bedroom revealing a time capsule: old sketchbooks with curling corners, a cracked mug from a thrift store adventure, the faded scarf their mom had woven years ago.

Sunlight slid across bare floorboards, lending a temporary sense of order to the chaos.

Keaton sat on the kitchen chair, elbows on knees, watching and not-watching in equal measure.

He’d stowed his phone and was making a visible effort not to hover, his patience almost heroic.

Jules knew it was killing him to sit there while they figured out where to put everything, just waiting for them to ask for his help.

Jules stacked a pile of old sketchbooks along the lowest shelf, fingers ghosting over the painted spines.

Each one held entire months of their life—frustration, boredom, the wild frenzy of new ideas.

They lingered the longest over the smallest one that smelled of cedar and had a battered sticker from Wall Drug on the back.

This one felt too special to collect dust with the others.

It was from the summer they’d gone on a road trip with their grandparents and was filled with sketches from every stopping point.

The drawings weren’t even good, but they were memories they cherished.

That had been the summer they’d started loving art.

They nearly turned to ask Keaton where it should go, then caught themself—this was their home, and they were the only one who had a say in how their possessions were displayed.

They set the sketchbook beside a chipped mug—the mug Keaton had lifted triumphantly from a bin of other people’s castoffs about a month ago, declaring it “peak Jules.” Jules snorted, remembering the day: the two of them debating whether anyone actually needed a mug shaped like a hedgehog.

Now it stood on the top of the low bookshelf, making Jules smile every time they looked at it.

The biggest challenge was their paintings.

They held one up, eyeing the blank wall above the couch, arms trembling from the effort.

For a fleeting, embarrassing second, they wanted Keaton to step in, to say, “There, that’s perfect,” and anchor the moment.

But Keaton just relaxed into his chair, hands folded in his lap, content to let Jules figure things out.

“I’m not sure I want to put this one up,” Jules muttered, shifting the canvas a fraction to the left, then back again, “I keep waffling between it being one of my favorites and thinking it’s ugly.”

Keaton’s smile flickered, genuine and a little wistful. “I can help if you want. But I like watching you figure it out.”

The surprising warmth in his voice, admiration rather than expectation, made something flutter low in Jules’s chest. They grinned, shaking their head, the moment lighter.

They loved what Keaton was trying to do, but they found they wanted him to have an opinion.

If things went well, he’d be spending plenty of time here, and he deserved to be at ease too.

“Can you hold it up so I can see what it’d look like on that wall? ”

Jules stepped back, narrowing their eyes, hands on hips.

Keaton repositioned the print until Jules was satisfied with the placement.

Finally, they let out a sigh of relief. There.

It wasn’t perfectly centered on the wall, but it was right—at least for now.

Keaton pulled a pencil out of his pocket and marked the wall before leaning the painting against the wall.

When he offered the hammer to Jules, they shook their head.

They’d much rather take a moment to appreciate Keaton’s glorious ass as he hung the frame.

The room felt different with the painting up: more theirs, more permanent.

Small victories, Jules thought. Letting the space take shape around them, not in someone else’s shadow. It was strange, this sudden responsibility for every choice—no one to defer to, no one to blame if it all felt off. Liberating, sure. But also a touch lonely.

Keaton stretched and wandered over, careful not to crowd. “It looks like that wall was built for that painting,” he said simply. “I like it.”

Jules caught his gaze, saw the pride there—soft, no strings attached. “Yeah. I think maybe I do too,” they admitted, just loud enough for him to hear. “Thank you for hanging it. I probably would have put a hole in the wall.”

“Wouldn’t want that. What would your landlord say?” Keaton teased. Little by little, he’d become more playful over the past few months.

Jules looped their arms around his neck. They had to stand on tiptoes, chests pressed together, to whisper in Keaton’s ear. “The good news is I know how to get back on his good side.”

“Oh, and how is that?” Keaton cupped Jules’s ass, holding their body against his.

Rather than tell him, Jules placed a line of kisses down the side of his neck. They pressed one leg between Keaton’s thighs, grinding against his erection. “I’ve heard he’s willing to overlook a lot for the sake of a tight hole to come in.”

“That’s certainly one way to do business.” Before things could get any more heated, Keaton took a step back. “If you keep that up, we’re going to be late for dinner. Dad’s making ribs to celebrate you getting in here and me finally having the rest of the units ready to rent out.”

Dinner with the family was the last thing Jules wanted to do, but it was sweet that the Andersons had welcomed them with open arms. They looked longingly toward the bedroom door, wishing there was time to break in the new bed that had been delivered first thing this morning.

“Fine, but you’re coming up when you drop me off.”

“You can count on it.” Keaton pulled them in for one final kiss before turning away. “We should have stopped working earlier so we could shower.”

“We could always get cleaned up together,” Jules teased, knowing Keaton wouldn’t go for it. The man was obsessed with punctuality, and a shared shower wouldn’t save them any time.

Keaton swatted Jules on the ass. “Go. I’ll use the shower next door since that unit hasn’t had its final cleaning yet.”

There were definite perks to having the master keys to the building.