Caleb’s hands went still on the wood.
For a heartbeat, the only thing moving in the shop was her—those fingers at his wrist, that slow climb up his sleeve, the quiet circle of her thumbs digging into knots he hadn’t even realized were there until they started to give.

He swallowed once, jaw flexing, eyes closing for half a second as she talked about candles and jazz and Sweet Emotion like it wasn’t the most vivid picture he’d had in his head all week.

“Christ, Lena…” he muttered, voice low, almost a growl, “…you say stuff like that and expect me to sand a cabinet?”

He tilted his head just enough that the corner of his mouth brushed the edge of her hair when he spoke again.
“I’m one bad guitar riff away from burning this whole bench down.”

Her kiss landed at the back of his neck; his shoulders eased under her palms like she’d just knocked the last bit of air out of him. He turned his head a fraction, catching her in his peripheral.

“You know,” he murmured, “you reorganize my tools by vibe, add candles, start dancing to Aerosmith while I’m working…” His voice dropped, gravel and heat. “I’m not gonna regret a thing. I’m gonna shut the shop, lock the door, and make you regret trying to finish the song.”

He reached up then, catching her hand at his shoulder and drawing it down until her fingers were laced with his across his chest. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist once, slow and steady.

“Too cute to be charged rent,” he echoed, softer now. “Yeah. That’s the problem, Hartley. You keep making the rules, I keep breaking ‘em.”

He leaned back against her touch, the back of his head almost resting against her temple, and let out a quiet, honest laugh.

“Stay there,” he said, voice warm, unhurried. “Let the rest of the world wait. I’ll pay you in sawdust and bad classic-rock covers if that’s what it takes.”

And then, quieter still, the words slipping out like a confession:
“God help me, Lena, you’re the only distraction I’ve ever wanted.”

He squeezed her hand once, then let it go just enough to pick the sanding block back up — not because he wanted to work, but because he needed something to hold before he turned around and kissed her until the song stopped.

Caleb didn’t sand. Not right away.

The block sat idle in his palm, the rough edge catching the light. He just let the quiet stretch between them — the hum of the overhead fan, the faint tick of the old clock near the door, the smell of cedar and coffee tangled with her perfume. It was the kind of silence that felt lived in. The kind his dad used to say was the mark of a good shop.

“Dad built this bench,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. “First summer after Mom got pregnant with Elsie. Told me it’d outlast both of us if I treated it right.”

He ran his thumb over a groove in the wood — one that had been there longer than he’d been alive. “When the dementia started, he stopped coming in. At first, he’d just forget where he left a tool. Then it was whole projects. One morning, he just… handed me the keys. Said, ‘You’ll keep it alive.’ Then he drove home and never came back.”

He took a breath, working his jaw once. “Honestly? I thought he’d sell it. Or give it to someone else. Hell, for a while I figured Grant might end up with it. Guy was better with books than I was with numbers.”

Caleb smiled faintly, almost to himself. “But Dad left it to me. Didn’t say why. Didn’t have to. I think he knew I’d still come here every day even if it wasn’t mine.”

He looked over his shoulder then, eyes catching hers. “It took me a long time to realize he wasn’t just giving me a business. He was giving me a place to belong.”

The sanding block rolled between his fingers; he set it down, turning fully toward her now. The late light cut through the window, dust motes spinning around her like they were drawn to her, too.

“And you,” he said quietly, “you make it feel like home.”

His hand found the curve of her jaw, thumb tracing along her cheekbone. “Every time you walk in here with coffee and trouble, I remember why I stayed. Why I didn’t sell it. Why I still hear his voice when I open up in the morning.”

A slow breath. A softer smile.

“So yeah,” he murmured, leaning closer, “keep breaking my rules. Bring the candles. The music. Whatever the hell you want. Just… don’t stop walking through that door.”

He hesitated then, a beat of warmth and gravity holding the space between them, before his voice dropped lower — the kind of low that lived somewhere between reverence and hunger.

“Because I don’t ever want this place quiet again.”

Lena didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. Didn’t pull back like she usually would when things edged too close to serious.

She just stood there behind him for a second, letting her thumb trace lazy circles along the fabric of his shirt. Let the weight of his words settle over her shoulders like sunlight — warm, surprising, and a little bit holy.

God, he meant it.

All of it.

Not just the sweet parts. Not just the sexy promises and the classic rock double entendres. But the quiet ones too. The ones laced with memory and grief and something deeper — like she wasn’t just his favorite distraction but part of the structure holding him up.

And that?

That did something to her.

Something dangerous and real and impossible to laugh off.

Still, her voice came out smooth when she finally spoke — low, sultry, threaded with a smile — but the edges had softened. The sass had teeth, sure, but the bite wasn’t meant to wound.

It was meant to stay.

“Well,” she murmured, fingers still tracing that spot just beneath his shoulder blade, “I guess it’s a good thing I look damn good in a tool belt.”

She leaned in, brushing her mouth just behind his ear — featherlight, a whisper of a kiss more felt than seen.

“Even better thing,” she added, letting her hands slide slowly down his chest before looping loosely around his waist, “is that I happen to be very good at making noise.”

Her nose nudged into the curve of his neck, her voice a velvet ribbon against his skin. “So don’t worry, baby. This place? It’s never gonna be quiet again.”

Then, softer still, like a secret just for him:
“You don’t have to be alone with all that weight anymore, Caleb. Not when I’ve got two hands and a lifetime’s worth of stubborn.”

She pulled back just far enough to see his face, brushing her fingers through the longer bits of hair at his nape.

“You’re not your dad,” she said gently. “But you love like him. Build like him. And I think he knew you’d make this place more than a shop.”

She smiled then — slow and radiant, like her heart was showing through.
“Your dad knew exactly what he was doing, Caleb. He left this place to the one who builds with his whole soul… not just his hands. That kind of legacy doesn’t fit in a ledger. It fits in you.”

Then, playful again but no less honest, she kissed his cheek — deliberately slow — and whispered:

“So yeah. I’ll bring candles. I’ll bring chaos. I’ll steal your cinnamon rolls and reorganize your nails by moon phase if that’s what it takes. Just don’t ask me to stop showing up.”

Her hand found his again, fingers lacing through with ease, and she gave it a squeeze that said we’re here, we’re real, we’re doing this.

“I don’t want it quiet either, Caleb,” she said finally, eyes locked on his. “I want all of it. The noise. The sawdust. The long afternoons where nothing gets done because you can’t stop looking at me.”

A beat.

Then, grin blooming, “So go ahead. Pick up that sanding block, baby. I dare you.”

Because the truth was, she’d already built a home here — not in the walls or the windows, but in him.
And she wasn’t going anywhere.

Caleb went still again, but this time it wasn’t the kind of stillness that came from tension. It was reverent — the kind that happens when something important lands and you don’t want to risk breathing too loud and scaring it off.

Her words worked their way in slow. He could feel every one of them — in his chest, in his jaw, somewhere deeper than he’d ever admit out loud.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out rough around the edges. “You’ve got a hell of a way of undoing a man, you know that?”

He turned just enough that she was in front of him again, her hands still resting lightly at his waist, eyes shining with that steady, infuriating kind of affection that always stripped him down to the studs.

“You say stuff like that and then act surprised when I can’t remember what the hell I was doing five seconds ago,” he said quietly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “And for the record, you in a tool belt? That’s not helping.”

Her laugh warmed the air between them. Caleb lifted a hand and brushed the back of his knuckles along her jaw, slow and careful, the way he handled old wood that mattered too much to risk splintering.

“Noise I can handle,” he murmured. “Sawdust, chaos, Aerosmith—hell, even your cinnamon roll crimes. That’s the kind of racket I want in here.”

He let his thumb drift down until it rested under her chin, tilting her face just slightly toward his. “But that part about me not being my dad…” he paused, swallowing hard, “that one hits.”

He looked down at her for a long moment, then shook his head softly. “He built things that lasted. Didn’t say much while he was doing it, but he never left anything half-done. I’ve spent half my life trying to make sure I don’t mess up what he started. And then you come in here and remind me maybe I’m not supposed to build it the same way. Maybe I’m supposed to build something new.”

A beat passed, and his voice dropped, quieter now. “You make it easy to believe I can.”

His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers tracing the edge of her hairline. “And you’re right. I don’t want it quiet. I want this. The noise, the stubborn, the sawdust in your hair, and the way you always find the one damn thing that makes me forget the rest of the world.”

She grinned up at him then, all challenge and sunlight, and tossed the line about picking up the sanding block.

Caleb huffed out a laugh — low, deep, the kind that lived somewhere between disbelief and affection. “You’re really gonna stand there and dare me after all that?”

He set the sanding block down deliberately on the bench behind her. “You ever think maybe some things aren’t meant to get finished on time?”

He stepped in close, until the air between them was just breath and sawdust, and leaned in so his words brushed her ear.

“’Cause I’m starting to think you’re the only project I don’t mind leaving half-done.”

Then he smiled — that slow, quiet, real kind — and added, “But if we’re being fair, you started this, Hartley.”

His hand found hers again, fingers threading tight. “Now you get to help me finish it.”

And he meant every damn word of it.

Lena didn’t move right away.

Just stood there, watching the way he looked at her — like he was still trying to figure out how someone like her had slipped into a place like this and made it feel like home. Like maybe he was still waiting for the punchline.
Except the only punchline was how gone she was for this man.

Her fingers tightened slightly where they were laced with his. Then she brought their joined hands up between them, pressed a kiss to his knuckles like she was making a promise without having to say the words.

“Caleb Maren,” she said, low and teasing, but soft enough to catch on the air between them, “you say stuff like that and expect me not to climb you like a cedar beam?”

She watched his mouth twitch like he was trying not to laugh, and God, she loved that — that little almost-smile he only gave her, the kind he didn’t even realize made her feel like the only girl in the whole damn world.

“Honestly,” she continued, pulling their hands toward her waist and letting one settle there, “I’m starting to think you just like hearing me flustered. Which is rude, considering how hard I’m trying to play it cool.”

She leaned in, her nose brushing his. “But for the record? I know exactly what I started.”

And she did.

Because this wasn’t just flirting. It wasn’t just cinnamon rolls and classic rock and stolen afternoons in his shop. This was something slow-burn and bone-deep. Something she’d build with him — crooked smiles and uneven timing and all.

Her thumb grazed along the line of his jaw before she tipped her head, eyes bright. “And I’m not scared to finish it either, Maren. Even if it takes us forever.”

Then, a beat.

A breath.

And with a soft laugh, she added, “But you’re out of luck if you think I’m helping sand that drawer first.”

She winked.
“I’ve got much better uses for these hands.”

And before he could get a word in — before that grin of his got too smug — she kissed him.

Slow and sure and just a little smug herself.

Because she knew — knew the way he melted when she kissed him like that. Knew exactly how to make him forget the rest of the world.

And she planned on doing it every damn day.

Caleb didn’t even try to hide it this time.
The grin came easy, the kind that started in his chest and worked its way up until it bent his mouth and reached his eyes. He let her pull their hands up, let her press her mouth to his knuckles like she was claiming him one small piece at a time.

“Climb me like a cedar beam,” he echoed, voice low, the faintest rasp of a laugh threading through it. “You really are hell on a man’s concentration, Hartley.”

He let her guide his hand to her waist, palm spreading against the soft fabric there, thumb tracing an idle circle that gave him away completely. “I don’t like you flustered,” he murmured. “I like you exactly like this. Standing in my shop, telling me you’re not scared, looking at me like I’m not either.”

She brushed his jaw; he caught her wrist gently and turned his head enough to press a kiss against her palm. “You don’t have to play it cool with me,” he said quietly. “I’ve been gone for you since the day you walked in here asking about a bookshelf you didn’t actually need.”

Her wink and the line about sanding earned another soft huff of a laugh. “I knew you were gonna say that,” he said. “And for the record? I’m fine with you finding better uses for those hands.”

Then she kissed him—slow, sure, smug.
Caleb let the sanding block slide off the bench and hit the floor without looking. His free hand came up to the back of her neck, holding her there while he kissed her back like the rest of the world had gone out to lunch. Sawdust clung to his shirt and to her sleeves; the fan hummed above them; and he just let himself melt.

When he finally pulled back enough to breathe, his forehead rested against hers. His voice was still low, but softer now, stripped of everything but truth.

“Forever doesn’t scare me either, Lena,” he said. “Not if it looks like this.”

He stroked her jaw once more, thumb grazing the corner of her mouth where her smile still lived. “Let the drawer wait,” he added, a flicker of a grin returning. “I’ve got something better to work on.”

And then he kissed her again, slower, deeper, like he’d already decided the shop could stay quiet for as long as she wanted.

Lena didn’t think she’d ever get used to the way he looked at her.

Not in the early, breathless kind of way most men did — like she was a fire they wanted to touch just long enough to say they had. But in the way Caleb looked at her now, all sawdust and sincerity, like she was something he built toward. Like he’d measured twice before falling in love with her and decided to risk it anyway.

Her chest pulled tight as his forehead rested against hers, and for a second she didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. The weight of it — his words, his touch, the kiss still lingering like smoke on her lips — it all settled somewhere deep, somewhere sacred.

Then she smiled. Small at first, then wide and bright and warm enough to rival the late light pouring in through the windows.

“Well, hell,” she whispered, letting her fingers brush the back of his neck. “There you go again. Saying something like that and expecting me not to marry you on the spot with a ring made outta twine and leftover hardware.”

She felt his quiet laugh rather than heard it — that low, wrecked sound in his chest — and leaned in just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“But since we’re playing the long game,” she added, voice playful but steady, “you better get used to distractions, Caleb Maren. ’Cause I’ve got a whole future full of 'em planned. Flirting in your workshop. Dancing in the kitchen. You, wet and half-naked, fixing the leaky sink while I supervise.”

She tilted her head slightly, nose brushing his. “You don’t get to build a life this steady and think I won’t make it my playground.”

Her hand slid from his neck to his collarbone, fingers curling into the fabric there. “But this?” she whispered, smile softening again. “This is my favorite part.”

She kissed him once more, slower this time — like it meant everything, because it did — then pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

“No noise in the world better than your voice saying forever like it’s a fact,” she said. “So yeah. Let the drawer wait. Let the whole damn town wait.”

Her smile turned smug as she nudged him gently toward the wall. “You’ve got me here now, and I’m a hands-on kinda girl.”

And just like that, she stepped into him again, tangled in sawdust, sunlight, and the only man who ever made forever feel like the easiest promise she’d ever make.

Caleb couldn’t help it — the grin broke through before he even tried to fight it. That soft, stupid, can’t-hide-it kind of smile that started somewhere in his chest and worked its way up until it reached his eyes.

“Twine and leftover hardware, huh?” he said, voice warm and teasing. “Kinda perfect, actually. We could call it rustic charm. Maybe throw in a couple screws for extra commitment.”

Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, and his breath hitched just a little — enough for her to notice, because she always did. He tilted his head just enough that their noses nearly touched, his tone dropping low. “You make that sound like the best damn proposal I’ve ever heard, Lena Hartley.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth, and he laughed under his breath, the sound low and wrecked and completely undone by her. “You talk about futures like you’re reading blueprints,” he murmured. “Flirting in the shop, dancing in the kitchen, me half-dressed under a sink—” He shook his head, eyes gleaming. “You really do know how to sell a plan.”

He caught her wrist gently as her hand trailed down his collarbone, pressing her palm flat against his chest where his heartbeat gave him away. “You say ‘playground’ like I don’t already know I’m the one who’s gonna end up doing all the heavy lifting,” he said, grinning now. “But hell, I’ll take it. Every leaky pipe, every burnt pancake, every time you rearrange the spice rack and pretend you didn’t.”

When she called this her favorite part, he went quiet — just for a beat. Looked at her like he was memorizing the moment, the light, the way her lips curved when she said forever like she already believed it.

He touched her cheek, thumb sweeping just under her jaw. “You know what my favorite part is?” he said softly. “That you keep showing up. Every time. Like it’s not just habit — like it’s choice.”

Then she nudged him toward the wall, and his laugh came out low and bright, hands sliding automatically to her hips to steady her and maybe himself too.

“Hands-on kinda girl,” he echoed, eyes flicking down to her mouth, then back up. “Good thing I’m more of a hands-on kinda guy.”

He leaned in close, his voice a whisper now, rough and honeyed. “Drawer can wait. Forever can’t.”

And then he kissed her — really kissed her — deep and smiling, sawdust in his hair and sunlight spilling across the floor.

When they finally broke apart, both a little breathless, he rested his forehead against hers and murmured, “You keep talkin’ like that, Hartley, and I’ll start thinkin’ you actually like me.”

A beat. His grin widened.

“Which, for the record, is a hell of a lucky thing. ’Cause I’m completely gone on you.”

Oh, she liked that.
The way he grinned like she’d rewired something in him. The way his voice dipped low when he called her by her last name like it meant more, always more. And God, the way he looked at her — like maybe she was already home.

Lena let her fingertips linger at his chest, right over that heart she could feel racing beneath her palm. Felt his breath catch, watched the way his mouth curved with every teasing word, and thought—yeah. This man was absolutely hers.

"Rustic charm and leftover screws?" she repeated, one brow arched, her voice all velvet and dare. “Careful, baby. That almost sounds like foreplay.”

She shifted forward slightly, just enough that her hips brushed his — subtle, deliberate, no apologies. “And you know I love a man who commits to a theme. If we’re going with the whole ‘shop romance’ aesthetic…” Her lips ghosted along his jaw, just barely grazing skin, “...I’ve got a few tools of my own.”

Her hand trailed slowly down his side, nails dragging lightly through the worn cotton of his shirt, until it found his waistband — fingers slipping just under the hem with a practiced kind of mischief. “I mean, you did say you’re a hands-on kinda guy.”

She tilted her head back enough to meet his gaze, eyes dark with amusement, affection, and something else that smoldered beneath the surface. “So go on then, Maren,” she whispered. “Show me.”

Her lips found his again — this time deeper, hungrier, with the kind of kiss that made her forget where she ended and he began. The kind that said this is mine. That said we built this together, and I’m not going anywhere.

When they pulled apart, flushed and breathless, Lena let her fingers tangle in the back of his hair, smiling like she was already winning whatever silent game they’d started playing.

“You think I keep showing up outta habit?” she murmured, voice low and steady now. “Baby, I show up because I want to. Because even on the days you’re grumpy and covered in sawdust and yelling at the garbage disposal like it personally betrayed you…” Her hand pressed firmer against his chest. “I still look at you and think: yep. That’s the one.”

She stepped back just enough to tease, dragging her fingers slowly across the waistband of his jeans before letting go. “Now are you gonna keep kissing me like we’ve got all the time in the world—” her grin flashed, wicked and warm, “—or are you gonna bend me over that workbench like we don’t?”

And damn, did she hope it was the latter.

Caleb’s laugh came out low and unsteady, the kind of sound that didn’t bother to hide how hard she’d just knocked the air out of him. He kept his forehead against hers for a beat, eyes closed, breathing her in like sawdust and sunlight and trouble had just become his favorite combination.

“Foreplay,” he echoed, voice gone rough. “Leave it to you to make screws sound indecent, Hartley.”

She shifted her hips into his and his hands went there automatically, palms spreading against her waist like they’d been waiting all day for her to line them up like that. “You’re not playing fair,” he murmured. “Coming in here smelling like coffee and cinnamon rolls, talking tools and themes and… God help me… ‘rustic charm.’”

Her lips brushed his jaw and his eyes fluttered closed for a second. He swallowed hard, fighting for composure he didn’t really want to win. “Tools of your own, huh?” he muttered, a flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I should’ve guessed. You’re a menace with a spice rack, of course you’d be dangerous with power tools.”

Then her fingers slid under his waistband and whatever quip he had died in his throat. His grip tightened at her hips, thumbs sweeping slow circles that gave him away completely. “Hands-on kinda guy,” he said, voice gravel now. “You have no idea.”

She whispered show me. Caleb tilted his head until his mouth was just beside her ear. “Careful,” he said, low enough it was almost a growl. “I’ve been building things my whole life. When I start something, I finish it.”

Her kiss landed, deep and hungry. He kissed her back the same way, one hand sliding up her spine, the other finding the back of her neck. Sawdust on their clothes, light spilling across the floor, the whole shop smelling like cedar and heat. When she finally pulled back, he stayed close, his forehead resting against hers.

“Grumpy, covered in sawdust, yelling at the garbage disposal,” he murmured, smiling a little now. “You do know how to pick your heroes.”

He brushed his thumb over the corner of her mouth, still tasting her there. “You think I don’t notice?” he asked softly. “Every time you walk in here, everything gets better. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.”

Then she dragged her fingers across his waistband and threw down her dare. His eyes darkened, his jaw clenched, and the smirk that followed was slow and devastating.

“Bend you over the workbench,” he repeated, like he was testing the words. “You really want me to show you what happens when a hands-on guy stops sanding?”

He shifted, nudging her gently back against the edge of the bench until the small of her back touched the wood. His palms framed her hips again, steady but full of intent, his mouth hovering just above hers.

“I was trying to be a gentleman, Lena,” he murmured, voice thick with heat and affection. “You keep talking like that and this shop’s gonna end up with a whole new set of memories.”

A beat. His smile went softer but no less sure.

“Your call, Hartley,” he whispered. “Slow like we’ve got all day… or fast like we’re making our own kind of noise.”

His thumbs traced slow, deliberate lines at her waist. “Either way,” he added, eyes locked on hers, “I’m not letting you forget who’s holding you.”

Oh, hell.

She hadn’t meant for it to go this far. Not really. She’d just been bringing her man a sandwich, maybe a kiss, maybe a wink. Something sweet and domestic, like a girlfriend with self-control.

But then he looked at her like that. Said her name like it belonged to him. Pinned her with those rough, reverent hands like he wasn’t just touching her body — he was touching her choice to stay. And now?

Now she was the one forgetting how to breathe.

Lena’s fingers curled into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer with zero apology. “You want me to choose between slow and fast?” she whispered, mouth brushing his. “That’s real cute, baby. Like I’m not greedy enough to want both.”

She kissed him again, teeth grazing his bottom lip just enough to sting. Her hands slipped under his shirt this time, palms skimming hot across his stomach, and she felt the way his muscles jumped at the contact — the way he shuddered when she scraped her nails down just a little. Just enough to leave a mark.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” she murmured against his throat, lips pressing just beneath his jaw. “All soft and wrecked and ready to ruin me — and then ask if I want memories burned into this bench.”

She arched into him with a breathy laugh that barely disguised the heat curling through her like wildfire. “Baby, I hope this bench remembers. I hope the sawdust tells stories.”

Her hands slid to his back pockets, fingers curling in denim, voice going low and sugar-wicked. “And I hope you’re done trying to be a gentleman. Because that ship sailed the second I caught you muttering dirty talk about cinnamon rolls.”

She dragged her lips back up to his and kissed him deep — a slow, toe-curling, mind-stealing kiss that said this isn’t a drill. That said you started it, now keep up.

When she finally let him breathe, her voice came out a little hoarse. “So go ahead, Maren. Make noise with me.”

And then she reached behind her with one hand — deliberately, sinfully — and cleared the nearest corner of the workbench with a sweep of her arm.

The sound of tools hitting the floor never stood a chance against the sound of her voice:

“Time to finish what you started.”