Chapter seven
Emma
I push another box aside, wincing as a cloud of dust puffs into the air. "Ugh." I cough, waving a hand in front of my face. "Grandma, what were you storing in here? Ancient relics?"
Buddy, stretched out beside me, lifts his head at my voice, ears perking. Then, deciding I’m not actually addressing him, he rests his head back on his paws with a heavy sigh. I smirk. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re moral support, not physical labor.”
His tail thumps once against the floor in agreement. Shaking my head, I reach for another box. This one is different, smaller, sturdier, the edges frayed but still intact. My brow furrows as I brush away the layer of dust coating the top. The words "House Dreams" are written in Grandma’s unmistakable script.
A small jolt runs through me. My fingers trace the lettering as my throat tightens. This was her hopes and dreams. With careful hands, I open the cover. Inside, sketches, notes, lists, all of them for the house.
A new coat of paint. Fixing up the porch. Redoing the backyard, turning it into something warm and welcoming.
She had lots of plans for this place. And she never got to see them through. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it down. My grip tightens on the binder. Maybe she couldn’t finish it. But we can.
I find Bryan in the kitchen, forearms coated with sawdust, sleeves rolled up as he sands down a wooden shelf. Pausing in the doorway, I watch him for a moment before I clear my throat.
"Found something interesting."
He doesn’t glance up. "Good for you."
"It’s about the house." That gets his attention. He slows his movements, gaze flicking toward me.
I lift the binder. "Grandma’s renovation plans."
His brows pull together slightly as he wipes his hands on a rag. "Oh." His eyes drop to the binder, and for a second, he just stares at it. Then, finally, he nods toward it. "What’s in there?"
I step closer, flipping it open, angling it toward him so he can see. "Ideas. Sketches. She wanted to fix up the porch. Repaint the place. Make the backyard more inviting."
His jaw shifts, something flickering behind his eyes. I press on. "We could do it. Together."
That gets a reaction. His brows lift, a slow, sceptical tilt of his head. "We?"
I roll my eyes. "Yes, Bryan. We."
His lips twitch, not quite a smirk, but close. Then he leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. "And why exactly would I do that?"
I blink at him. "Because it was important to her."
Something shifts in his gaze, but he doesn’t look away. I force myself to hold it.
Then, after a beat, he exhales through his nose. "You really want to do this?"
"I do."
Another pause. Then, finally, he nods. "Fine."
I blink. "Fine?"
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like I didn’t just expect an argument. "For her," he says simply.
Something warm unfurls in my chest. I wasn’t expecting him to agree. At least, not this easily.
I glance down at the page we’re both looking at, pointing at one of the sketches. "She had some interesting ideas."
He tilts his head. "Like?"
I smirk. "She wanted to paint the shutters bright blue."
His brows shoot up. "Seriously?"
I laugh. "She called it ‘coastal charm.’"
Bryan shakes his head. "That’s... bold."
"You hate it already, don’t you?"
His lips press together, trying not to smirk. "I hate that I can already see you fighting me on it."
I grin. "Maybe."
His gaze lingers on me for a second longer before he shakes his head and turns back to his shelf.
I watch him for a beat before I exhale, tucking the binder against my chest. Maybe. Maybe is enough for now.
***
We’ve been here a few weeks now, and we seem to be getting along in a weird sort of way. The scent of fresh paint hangs in the air, thick with turpentine and salt. The old walls of Grandma’s house are finally taking in a new color, a soft, muted blue, almost the same shade as the ocean on a calm day. The roller glides across the surface, leaving smooth, even strokes behind.
I step back, hands on my hips, surveying my work. It’s coming together. Bit by bit, this house is starting to look like a home again. A deep clang echoes from below. I smirk. Bryan’s still at it.
Buddy, stretched out beside me, lazily gnaws at his favorite chew toy, oblivious to the way my mind keeps drifting to the man in the basement. I shake my head, rolling my eyes at myself. It’s just about the house.
That’s what this lightness in my chest is about. That’s why there’s warmth curling in my stomach. That’s why I’m smiling more than usual. It’s not because of him.
I dip my roller back into the paint tray, humming absently, the sound mingling with the steady rhythm of Bryan’s hammering downstairs. It’s oddly comforting, his presence filling the quiet corners of the house.
I never realized how much I missed it; how much I missed this. For a second, I let myself sink into the memory.
Summers spent in this house, Bryan beside me, both of us barefoot and sun-kissed, dreaming about everything we’d do one day. Back then, it always felt like there was time. That we had all the time in the world.
I shake the thought away, setting the roller down as I wipe my hands on my jeans. No use looking back.
Another clang. A muffled curse. I snort, grabbing a clean rag before heading downstairs.
The basement is dim, the air cooler, carrying the scent of sawdust and damp wood. Bryan is crouched near the door hinge, sleeves rolled up, sweat beading along his forearms.
I pause at the bottom step. Man alive, does he look good!
The dim lighting casts shadows along his jaw, the sharp angles of his face more defined. His hair is slightly tousled and a bead of sweat trails down the side of his neck.
I swallow. Nope. Not thinking about that. Instead, I clear my throat. “Need help?”
He doesn’t look up, just grunts. “Nah.”
A second later, metal scrapes, the hinge sticking again, and he mutters another curse under his breath.
I smirk. “Right. You’ve totally got this under control.”
He glares at me. “If you’re here to mock me, you can leave.”
I step closer, arms crossed. “And miss watching you struggle? Not a chance.”
He exhales heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “The thing’s warped. Keeps catching.”
I nudge his knee with my foot. “Scoot.” He narrows his eyes but moves back just enough.
I kneel beside him, grabbing the screwdriver and inspecting the hinge. It’s rusted over in parts, the screws slightly bent from years of use. “See? You’re using too much force,” I say, twisting it carefully. “Loosen it first, then…”
Our hands brush. I freeze.
His fingers are warm, rough, and the contact sends a jolt straight through me. For a second, neither of us moves.
The air shifts. Heavy. Charged. I force myself to keep my eyes on the hinge. But I feel it.
The way his breathing changes. The way his body stills beside me. The way my own pulse betrays me, hammering a little too hard.
His voice is lower when he speaks. “You always had to prove you were better at this stuff.”
I arch a brow, turning to face him. Bad idea. He’s too close.
His face is just inches away, those green eyes locked onto mine. The hint of sweat and cedar in the air makes my stomach do an uncomfortable flip.
No way. I clear my throat. “I am better.”
A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “Debatable.”
I force myself to roll my eyes and look back at the hinge. “Are you going to help or just argue?”
He huffs a small laugh, the sound surprisingly warm. I hate how much I like it.
We work together in silence, fingers occasionally brushing. Every touch sends another spark skittering through my veins, and I pretend not to notice when his hands hesitate a second too long before pulling away.
Finally, after some adjustments, the hinge gives way smoothly. Bryan leans back, wiping his forearm across his forehead. “Finally.”
I grin. “See? Told you.”
He just shakes his head, watching me. Something flickers in his expression, something unreadable. I feel my cheeks heat.
“What?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly… “Nothing.”
I don’t believe him. And I hate that I wish I could. The rest of the evening is easier.
Bryan fixes the last of the loose nails in the staircase while I finish organizing the supplies. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable.
I catch myself stealing glances at him more often than I should. And every time I do, my chest tightens in a way I can’t explain.
Later, as we finish cleaning up, Bryan dusts his hands off and heads toward the stairs. "Goodnight."
His voice is gruff, clipped but there’s something softer underneath. I hesitate, fingers brushing over the rag in my hands. Then, before I can stop myself, I whisper;
"Missed this."
He pauses on the steps.
For a second, I think he heard me. But then, without turning, he continues up, leaving me alone in the dim basement, my pulse still too loud in my ears.
***
The old house settles around me, creaking softly in the hush of night. The only light in my room comes from the small lamp on the nightstand, its soft glow stretching over peeling wallpaper, casting long, sleepy shadows along the walls. The air is cool, tinged with sea salt and old wood, the distant crash of waves a steady pulse in the silence.
Buddy is curled at the foot of my bed, his rhythmic breathing a comfort, his warmth a steady weight against my feet. I wonder what Bryan thinks about Buddy’s disloyalty, and it makes me smile. Good doggie.
We spent the whole day working, painting, fixing things, making this place liveable again. My body is sore, my fingers stiff from gripping paint rollers and screwdrivers.
But my mind refuses to settle. I flip open Grandma’s binder, smoothing my hand over the worn pages.
Her careful script fills every inch, notes on window replacements, ideas for the garden, even sketches for a porch swing. She had dreams for this place. Big ones.
I wish she was here. Not just because she’d know exactly what to do about the creaky floors and peeling paint, but because she always knew what to say … and because I love and miss her.
She would’ve known how to handle living under the same roof as Bryan. She would’ve had something wise and firm to say about the way my stomach keeps flipping every time he’s near.
I think about today. The way we moved around each other so easily. The quiet teamwork.
And him. His laugh, low and unguarded, when I reminded him of his terrible painting skills. The way his eyes had flickered with something unreadable when our hands brushed. How his presence, solid and steady, made everything feel less heavy.
I don’t know why I feel like this. Or maybe I do. I close my eyes and let my mind drift back. Bryan at 17. Back when he was mine.
The summer heat sticky in the air, his hands brushing over my scraped knee after I tripped chasing Buddy on the beach. His voice, firm but gentle. "Can’t lose you, Em."
I had laughed it off then, teasing him for being dramatic. But he meant it. And I had left anyway.
I press the binder shut, my chest tight. The past doesn’t matter. Not now. I need to focus on the future. On the clinic. On Dad’s debt that’s been suffocating me.
I glance at my phone on the nightstand, its screen dark and silent. The last email from the creditors still lingers in my mind. $5,000 due in two months.
I barely have half of that right now. I need a job. Something fast. Before they start hounding me again.
I exhale slowly, rubbing my temples. It’s overwhelming. The weight of it all.
But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel as unbearable. Maybe because Bryan’s here.
Maybe because, despite everything, despite the walls we’ve both built, despite all the reasons we shouldn’t, it feels good living with him. Safer. Less lonely.
A sudden thud downstairs jolts me upright, heart pounding. Buddy stirs, lifting his head with a low whine, ears twitching toward the sound.
I hold my breath. Did Bryan drop something? Is he still awake?
For a second, I consider going down. Checking on him. Seeing if he’s okay. But I stop myself, fingers tightening around the quilt.
No. I can’t. Because if I do, if I see him, if I hear his voice, if I let myself sink any further into whatever this is…
I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull myself back out. I close my eyes, take a slow breath, and force myself to stay in bed.