Page 50 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

Keaton shrugged, the tension in his shoulders refusing to let go.

“I figured we could use a little break from being everyone’s favorite project.

My mom asked if I was bringing you to dinner again this week, wanted me to tell you that you were missed yesterday.

I think she’s taken over your fan club.”

Jules snorted. “She’s making a list of recipes for me to try. I said I’d only accept if she stops putting celery in everything.”

“Good luck with that.” Keaton’s mouth quirked. “She’s been obsessed with finding a way to get us to eat more veggies since we were kids. I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

Their food arrived quicker than Keaton had expected.

The place wasn’t packed, but they were plenty busy for a weeknight, so he’d anticipated the kitchen taking longer.

So much for talking before dinner. Now, it would have to wait until after.

Jules started in on their salmon, eyes going wide in approval.

“Okay, you win. This is better than the diner, and I don’t have to dodge the town gossip. ”

Keaton laughed, the sound rumbling out with more relief than he’d intended. “I needed the break too.” He forced himself to lean back, fork abandoned. “Some days I feel like everyone thinks they need to be in my business.”

Jules’s chewing slowed. They rested their fork on the edge of their plate, crossing their arms on the table. “Yeah.” Their voice was quiet, honest. “Same. It’s nice to know people care, but it feels like everyone thinks they’re entitled to an opinion about how I’m living my life.”

“What are they saying?” It felt like Jules was opening the door Keaton had been resisting, and he was going to take the opening. He went back to cutting his steak while he waited for Jules to answer.

Jules shrugged. “Sam thinks I’m a moron for walking away from sex-on-demand.

” Keaton would have choked at that admission if he’d had food in his mouth.

“Ollie’s a bit more subtle, but he stopped by today on his way from the bakery to the bookstore to let me know I’m being stubborn about this whole living on my own thing. ”

“Don’t let anyone make you feel bad about living life on your own terms.” A thought snuck into Keaton’s brain that that was exactly what he’d planned on doing.

Not that he wanted Jules to feel like they’d done something wrong, but he couldn’t control how Jules might interpret what he hoped to say.

He reached across the table, lacing his fingers with Jules’s.

“In the long run, I think it would have been worse if you hadn’t held your ground.

You had a plan, and you followed through with it.

Is how things progressed between us unconventional?

Sure. But in so many ways, you’ve taught me to expect the unexpected.

Maybe this will be good for both of us.”

“Maybe.” Jules didn’t sound as content as Keaton expected. There was a thread of melancholy in their single-word response. They pushed the rice around their plate, staring at it as if trying to count the grains. “I do miss being with you every night. You know that, right?”

Keaton felt something in his chest unclench. “I miss it too. Even when you left dirty paintbrushes in the bathroom sink.”

Jules grinned, quick and mischievous. “You love my mess. Admit it.”

He let out a wry breath. “Turns out I do. I thought I’d be the one who struggled with sharing space, but now it’s worse the other way. I keep thinking I hear you humming in the kitchen.”

Jules picked at the edge of their napkin, eyes shining with something softer than sadness.

“It’s backward, isn’t it? Most people move in together after dating for a while.

We did it the other way around, and now…

” They trailed off, but the words hung there: and now we’re apart, even though we don’t want to be .

Keaton cleared his throat, forcing himself forward. “I know I haven’t always been good at saying what I want. Or feeling things instead of stuffing them down until they turn into ulcers. But I don’t want you to ever think I’m pressuring you.”

Jules’s smile was gentle. “If you do, I’ll just remember it’s because you’re a control freak.”

He ran a hand over his jaw, five o’clock shadow scratching beneath his palm.

“I’ve been thinking about how to do this—how to make sure we both get what we need.

I know you wanted to prove you could do things on your own, and I want that for you.

I do. But I hate how much I miss you, and I can’t pretend it’s easy. ”

Jules blinked, eyes wide. “I didn’t want it to be easy. I just needed to know I could.”

Keaton nodded. “As much as I hate it, I think I did too. I want to know I’m not just holding on because I’m afraid of being alone since having you.

But I can see now how falling into a relationship because we lived under the same roof could have led to getting caught up in what was the comfortable thing, even if one of us wasn’t happy. ”

Jules’s gaze was steady as they leaned closer. “So what’s your plan, Mr. Plan for Everything?”

Keaton huffed, rolling his eyes. “You had to know I have a plan. I was thinking six months. We give it that long. You get your space. I get to prove I can let go of control without everything falling apart. We check in after six months. If we’re both still happy, still want this, then we start figuring out what’s next.

Maybe we buy a house. Or build one. One with a big kitchen and light everywhere and space for all your art.

And a basement I can hide in when I’ve annoyed you. ”

Jules’s face went soft, the tension in their posture melting away. “A six-month check-in. Not a deadline?”

“A promise,” Keaton said quietly. “Not a finish line. You set the pace. But if you’re not ready, then we plan for what comes next. Together.”

Jules reached across the table, threading their fingers with his. “You’re impossible, you know that? When you said you wanted to talk, I was half expecting you to give me some sort of ultimatum. I know I’m not the easiest person to deal with sometimes.”

“Yeah, well.” Keaton squeezed their hand, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Neither am I. Maybe that’s what makes us perfect for one another.”

Jules grinned, voice brightening. “I’ll agree to your terms if you write up a contract in Papyrus font. Just to torture you for being unable to live without a plan.”

Keaton groaned, but his chest felt lighter. “If that’s what it takes. I’d even use Comic Sans for you.”

They held hands, the window framing them in the glow of the lake and the hush of a world that, for once, didn’t need to be managed or repaired. Jules leaned their head against the glass, watching the water ripple as the sun started to set.

Their server cleared the dishes and brought out dessert. Keaton moved to the seat next to Jules, both to be closer to them and so they could appreciate the sunset together.

“You really mean it?” Jules asked, soft but fierce, as if daring him to back down. “You’re not just saying you want a future with me because it’s what people do?”

Keaton met their gaze, steady and unflinching. “I want you. I want a home with you. I want to build something that lasts. But I want it to be your choice as much as mine.”

Jules’s eyes went glossy, but they laughed, blinking the tears away. “You’re turning into a sap. If you keep this up, I might have to marry you someday.”

He grinned, relief and hope mixing in a way that felt new and right. “Let’s survive the six months first.”

They lingered at the table long after the plates were cleared, letting the hush stretch. The promise between them was neither heavy nor binding—it was hope, plain and simple, dressed up as a plan to make it less terrifying.

On the way out, Jules tugged him to the edge of the patio, just shy of the lake’s reach. Together, they watched the water, the world quiet except for the shifting reeds and the distant call of a bird settling for the night.

“Thank you,” Jules said, voice barely more than a breath. “For seeing me. For making this feel possible. Ollie and Sam were starting to get to me, and I was worried you wouldn’t tell me where your head was at.”

Keaton didn’t answer with words. He just held them close for a minute, breathing in the scent of pineapple, warm skin, and the summer night—everything that was home, even when home was still in progress.

The drive back was easy. Jules in the middle seat again, this time with their legs curled up on the seat, humming along with the ridiculous pop music, occasionally glancing over as if to reassure themself Keaton really was there.

Keaton found he didn’t mind being watched.

It was better than replaying everything that could have gone wrong in his head, better than the silence of his own apartment.

Back at the apartment, they climbed the stairs together, Keaton’s hand finding Jules’s at the landing.

Inside, the apartment was still in disarray: a stack of cardboard in the living area, a stray sock in front of the couch, the faint scent of lemon and blueberry from a candle Jules had clearly burned down to a stub.

By some unspoken agreement, neither of them pretended they didn’t know where tonight was headed. Keaton allowed Jules to lead him to the bedroom. They didn’t bother turning on the overhead light. Keaton sank onto the edge of the bed, toeing off his boots.

“I’ll give you this,” he admitted, stretching out as Jules busied themself with pulling back the covers, “your bed is more comfortable than mine.”

Jules cocked a brow, smug. “Must be the pillows. Or maybe just me.”

Keaton tugged them closer, settling them on his lap. “Probably both.”