Caleb’s laugh came low and unhurried, a quiet rumble that slipped out before he could stop it. He shook his head, eyes glinting in the firelight as he looked down at her. “One tax bracket, huh?” His thumb brushed slow over her hand beneath the blanket. “That’s generous. Feels more like I jumped into a whole different league.”

He leaned back, letting the firelight flicker against his face, the smile still tugging at his mouth. “And for the record, that towel had character. Been through things. Had history.” The corner of his mouth twitched when she snorted again. “You city types never appreciate vintage textiles.”

Her jab about domestication made him huff, that half-laugh that came from deep in his chest. He took another sip of cocoa, watching the steam rise, pretending to consider. “Domesticated,” he repeated, drawling it out like he was testing the word. “You say that like I didn’t survive just fine on burnt toast and stubbornness before you showed up.”

He tilted his head toward her, the smirk deepening. “Though I’ll admit, these mugs do class the place up a bit.”

The teasing shifted when she called him hot. He didn’t say anything at first, just let his arm tighten around her, hand resting at her hip. The firelight painted soft gold across her face, and he felt something settle in his chest—something that wasn’t just pride or amusement but that quiet, aching kind of love that didn’t need a name.

When she went on about him spoiling her, he let her speak, eyes steady on the porch lights she pointed to. Every word landed somewhere deep—like a hammer finding its mark. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t deflect. Just listened. When she pressed her hand to his chest, he caught it there, fingers covering hers. His voice came out softer than before. “Guess I just like seeing you happy.”

She kissed his jaw, and his eyes fluttered shut for half a breath. He let out a quiet hum, almost a sigh, resting his chin lightly against the top of her head. “You make it easy to build things that matter,” he murmured. “I just follow your lead.”

The night stretched quiet again, the kind of silence that felt alive. He looked out over the yard, the shadows of the maple leaves trembling in the firelight. Then he glanced back down at her, a smile ghosting across his lips. “You know, you talk a lot for someone who claims to just be here for the view.”

She swatted him without moving far, and he laughed, pulling her closer. His breath brushed the top of her hair as he murmured, low and sure, “Still, I’ll take that view any day.”

The wind shifted, cool against his cheek, carrying the smell of cocoa and smoke and her shampoo. He felt her settle against him again, fitting perfectly under his arm, and the thought came without words—this right here was everything he’d ever meant when he said home.

Lena took a slow sip of her cocoa—partly to hide her smile, partly because it really was that good. The fire popped in front of them, sending a scatter of sparks into the cool air, and she watched one drift up until it disappeared into the dark.

“Please,” she said finally, lifting her mug slightly like a toast. “You’re just jealous I can multitask. Admiring the view and keeping the conversation alive? Talent, Maren. Pure, God-given talent.”

He chuckled, that low, quiet sound that always seemed to find its way straight to her ribs.

Lena tilted her head back a little, eyes tracing the flames as they curled and snapped against the wood. The night smelled like smoke and pine and faint sweetness from the cocoa. Every once in a while, a breeze would sneak through the yard, rustling the leaves and tugging at the edge of the blanket draped over their shoulders.

She glanced over at him again, unable to help herself. The firelight painted over every line of him—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his hair caught the glow, that lazy confidence he wore like an old shirt. Damn, he really was something.

“I mean, can you blame me for talking?” she went on, swirling what was left of her cocoa. “You sit here looking all broody and wilderness-magazine handsome while I’m just supposed to not comment? Be serious.”

Caleb made a low sound of amusement, and she grinned, feeling a spark of victory.

“Besides,” she added, nudging him with her elbow, “you like it when I talk. Don’t even try to lie. Half the time, you’re just pretending to think while you listen to me ramble about whatever’s in my head.”

She took another sip, humming contentedly. “Like right now—I could start a whole dissertation about how fire pits are the adult version of campfires. Same vibes, but with better seating and a mortgage.”

He laughed quietly at that, and she shot him a sidelong smile, pleased with herself.

The silence that followed was easy, filled with the soft rhythm of crackling wood and the distant sound of wind weaving through the maple branches. The sky had that deep, inky stillness that only happened in October, when even the stars seemed to slow down.

Lena sighed happily, leaning her head against his shoulder. “You know,” she said after a moment, her tone still playful but edged with something thoughtful, “if we keep this up, I’m going to start expecting you to build a hot tub out here next.”

She turned to look at him, eyes dancing. “What? You’ve already nailed planters, the greenhouse, and a fire pit that could host a Viking feast. Might as well go for legend status.”

He gave her that patient look of his, the one that said he was half-amused and half-terrified by how her brain worked.

“Relax,” she teased, bumping her shoulder against his. “I’m kidding. Mostly. Though I’m just saying—a girl’s gotta dream.”

The fire shifted again, embers glowing brighter as the wood settled. Lena let the quiet stretch, the warmth from the flames brushing her skin, the steady weight of him beside her grounding everything in place.

“Anyway,” she murmured, half to herself, “if this is what domesticated looks like, I think we’re doing it right.”

She lifted her mug in mock salute, eyes on the fire, that faint, crooked smile curving her lips. “To multitasking, hot cocoa, and hot men who build things just because we mention them once.”

Then she glanced sideways at him and added, voice low and amused, “And to my excellent taste.”

Caleb snorted into his mug, trying—and failing—to hide the smile that broke across his face. “Multitask, huh?” His tone was lazy, amused. “Pretty sure that’s code for ‘can’t stop talking.’” He leaned back on the bench, elbow braced along the backrest, eyes flicking toward her with quiet mischief. “Not that I’m complaining. Someone’s gotta fill the silence. God forbid we let the fire do the talking.”

He took a slow sip, savoring the warmth before setting the mug down beside his boot. “And broody?” he muttered, smirking faintly. “That’s a new one. Thought the word you were looking for was focused. You know—like a man trying to relax without being turned into a magazine spread.”

The spark in her grin drew out a soft chuckle. He shifted slightly, shoulder brushing hers beneath the blanket. “And for the record, I don’t pretend to think when you talk.” He paused just long enough for a teasing glint to catch in his eyes. “That’s real thinking. Takes effort keeping up with that brain of yours. I’d call it endurance training.”

Her line about campfires made him laugh outright, low and rich. He shook his head, stretching his legs toward the fire. “You’re not wrong. Less mosquitoes, more mortgage. Still smells like smoke for three days though, so I’m not sure we’re winning.”

When she mentioned the hot tub, he turned toward her slowly, eyebrows raising in mock horror. “A hot tub,” he repeated, like he was testing the words for their sins. “You realize that’s a plumbing nightmare waiting to happen, right? You’re gonna have me out here digging trenches like I’m prepping for the apocalypse.” But the corner of his mouth twitched again, betraying him. “Still… Viking feast does have a nice ring to it.”

Her bump to his shoulder made him grin. “Dream all you want, Hartley. Just don’t hand me blueprints at breakfast.”

As the fire settled, he reached out to nudge another log into place, sparks snapping into the night. “You got a strange idea of domesticated,” he said after a beat, voice gentler now. “But… yeah. Feels right.”

When she raised her mug, he mirrored her, tapping his against hers with an easy clink. “To multitasking and the woman who somehow made flannel a full-time love language.” He met her eyes, smile faint but sure. “And to your excellent taste.”

He tilted his mug toward her once more before taking a sip. “Gotta admit—you’ve got a hell of a track record.”

Then, quieter, as the fire hissed and the night folded in closer: “Guess we both did alright.”

Lena tilted her head, a slow grin curving at the corner of her mouth. “Strange idea of domesticated, huh?” she echoed, her tone low and smooth, lazy with amusement. “I call it balance. You bring the wilderness, I bring the matching mugs. Keeps us interesting.”

The fire popped, scattering a few sparks skyward, and she took another sip of cocoa, watching the glow wash over his face. God, he really didn’t have a clue, did he? Sitting there all broad shoulders and quiet confidence, pretending he wasn’t the reason her pulse skipped like this every damn time.

She set her mug down on the bench, the steam curling between them. “Besides,” she drawled, leaning in slightly, “you’re the one who made me this way. You can’t date a mountain man and not get a little weird about fire smoke and sawdust. It’s practically pheromonal at this point.”

His only response was a low hum, but it was enough to make her smirk widen. “I mean, seriously,” she went on, “you chop wood once and suddenly I’m Pavlov’s dog. You light a fire, and my brain goes—” she snapped her fingers lightly—“‘oh, right, that’s foreplay.’”

The faint flicker of amusement that crossed his face was exactly what she wanted.

“And don’t even get me started on the smell of your workshop,” she added, voice softer but still teasing. “Half the time I go out there to bring you lunch, and I have to remind myself we’re civilized people. It’s the sawdust, I swear. Instant moral corruption.”

The fire crackled, and she leaned back against the bench, her hair brushing his arm. The blanket shifted as she crossed her legs, stretching them toward the heat.

“As for the hot tub,” she said, her tone turning thoughtful—though her grin betrayed her—“you might want to stop mocking that idea so quickly.”

She let the pause hang, slow and deliberate. “Think about it, Maren. Steam rising in the cold air. Stars overhead. Just the two of us, no phones, no clothes—” she let that one linger with just enough emphasis to make him look at her, “—and a whole lot of bubbles doing their best to keep things decent.”

The firelight danced across her face, and she tilted her head, voice low and smooth. “Tell me that doesn’t sound like it’s worth digging a trench for.”

She could feel him trying not to react, and it made her grin deepen, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “Besides,” she added, reaching for her mug again, “it’s not all about the fun stuff. It’s practical, too. Good for sore muscles. Great for bad knees.” She shot him a sidelong look. “Which I know you have, mister ‘my body makes more noise than the old house foundation.’”

He gave her a look, and she laughed, rich and genuine, taking another sip of cocoa.

The night air had gone cooler now, but the warmth between them made it easy to ignore. The fire was steady, soft gold flickering against his profile, and for a moment, she just let herself look.

The way he moved, quiet and grounded. The way the firelight curved along his jaw. The way he made the world feel both wild and safe at the same time.

“See?” she said finally, setting her mug aside again and resting her head against his shoulder. “Domesticated. Just with better views.”

The fire crackled, smoke curling into the stars, and Lena smiled to herself—content, sassy, and maybe just a little bit smug about the trench she’d just convinced him to dig in spring.

Caleb huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Balance, huh? You call it mugs; I call it survival. You bring color into this place before the pine and concrete swallow it whole.” He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch the glint in her eyes, the way the firelight caught gold in her hair. “Guess we make it work. You make chaos look like a home.”

Her crack about pheromones earned her a low, amused sound from deep in his chest. He leaned an elbow on his knee, voice dropping to that easy, teasing drawl that always came out when she started trouble. “Pheromones, huh? Pretty sure it’s just smoke and bad cologne, sweetheart. You’re the one who decided to make that romantic.”

She snapped her fingers, and he nearly choked on his cocoa. “Foreplay?” he echoed, laughing under his breath. “You realize you’re making it impossible for me to chop firewood in peace now. Gonna have the whole neighborhood thinking I’m out here seducing the lumber.”

When she brought up the workshop, he groaned softly and scrubbed a hand over his face, fighting a grin. “That place smells like sweat, varnish, and regret. If that’s what does it for you, I’m both flattered and deeply concerned.” He looked over at her, lips quirking. “But you keep showing up with sandwiches, so I’m not complaining.”

Her hot tub pitch made him laugh outright this time—a deep, warm sound that carried over the fire. “You’re relentless,” he said, shaking his head. “You paint a picture like that, and then you expect me to think about practical plumbing.” His gaze met hers, steady and amused. “You really want me out there with a shovel, freezing my ass off in February, all so you can test the moral limits of our backyard?”

He leaned back against the bench, letting her words linger between them. “Stars overhead, steam rising…” He paused, eyes narrowing in mock thought. “Yeah, alright. I see the appeal. But you’re digging the trench.”

When she called him out about his knees, he shot her a look, pretending to glare. “You wound me, Hartley. These knees built half this house.” A beat passed, then a smirk. “But sure—maybe I’ll let you test your therapy theories when the hot tub’s done. Purely medicinal, of course.”

As she laughed, he reached out, brushing a stray piece of hair off her cheek. The moment softened, quiet settling like a blanket between them. “You’ve got a dangerous way of turning chores into dreams, you know that?” he murmured. “You talk, and suddenly I’m halfway to sketching plans I swore I’d never touch.”

He fell silent again, eyes tracing the glow of the fire as it threw its light across her face. “Better views, huh?” His voice was low now, that lazy affection threading through it. “Not sure anything tops this one.”

He shifted, letting his arm rest around her shoulders, pulling her just a little closer. “Fine,” he said after a long pause, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Hot tub goes on the spring project list. But when the neighbors start asking questions, I’m blaming you.”

He felt her laugh more than heard it, soft and certain against his chest, and he smiled into her hair. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Domesticated suits us just fine.”

Lena tipped her head back with a soft laugh, her voice smooth and teasing. “Oh, please. You think the neighbors don’t already blame me for everything around here?”

She sipped from her mug, watching the firelight bounce in his eyes. “Half of them think I’m the reason you started wearing shirts that actually fit. The other half think I corrupted the wholesome woodsman who used to wave politely from his truck and now walks around looking like a damn lumberjack calendar.”

Caleb made a quiet sound, but she pressed on, smirking. “And honestly?” She leaned in just enough for her shoulder to brush his. “They’re not wrong. I’ll happily take the blame.”

Her tone softened, but the playful glint never left her eyes. “You were all pine and solitude when I met you. Now look at this place—warm porch lights, carved pumpkins, that ridiculous garland I made you hang twice because it was crooked. I’ve single-handedly upped the curb appeal of the entire block.”

She tilted her head toward him, voice dipping low. “And don’t even pretend you don’t love it. They see you out here stringing lights, building planters, grinning like you actually care what the porch looks like. You’re practically a suburban dream now.”

He gave her that side-eyed look that always made her grin wider, and she took another sip of cocoa, letting the steam curl against her lips. The fire popped, sending a burst of sparks into the dark, and she watched them drift upward before adding, almost lazily, “Besides… ‘corrupting influence’ sounds kind of sexy, don’t you think?”

The way his mouth twitched was answer enough.

She leaned back against him, tucking her legs beneath the blanket, the night cool and crisp around them. The fire crackled, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and for a moment she just breathed it in—smoke, pine, cocoa, and him.

Her gaze drifted toward the fire before she spoke again, quieter now, warmth threading through her voice. “You know, for all my talk about corrupting you, you’re actually the steady one,” she said. “The calm in the middle of my storm. You make everything better without even trying.”

Her eyes lifted to his, and she smiled—soft, sure, utterly sincere. “You’ve got this quiet kind of goodness, Caleb Maren. The kind that doesn’t shout or show off, it just… stays. Builds. Holds.”

She reached up, brushing her thumb along the line of his jaw, her touch slow and certain. “You’re it for me, you know that?” she murmured. “Not because of what you do or make—but because of who you are when the world goes still.”

He didn’t speak, didn’t have to.

She leaned in and kissed him—slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that said everything without needing words. Smoke and sweetness, warmth and quiet promise.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against his. “Guess the neighbors were right,” she whispered, smiling faintly. “I am a bad influence. But damn, it looks good on you.”

Caleb let out a low, genuine laugh that rumbled through his chest, his hand sliding up to rest at the back of her neck. “Yeah, you’ve got ‘bad influence’ written all over you,” he said, voice warm and amused. “Whole street’s probably holding neighborhood meetings about the woman who turned me into a functioning adult.”

He tipped his head, studying her with a faint grin. “You know, they used to wave at me like I was part of the scenery—‘that guy who fixes roofs and doesn’t talk much.’ Now I can’t go to the hardware store without someone asking about our porch décor. I’m ruined.”

His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And for the record, I liked those crooked garlands. Had character. But you and your ‘curb appeal’—” he shook his head, smiling—“you made it look like something out of a postcard. Guess I didn’t mind hanging it twice.”

Her comment about the calendar made him huff, leaning closer until his voice dipped against her ear. “Lumberjack calendar, huh? If you start selling those, at least give me a cut. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

When she called him a suburban dream, he laughed quietly again, shaking his head. “Suburban dream? Don’t let the flannel fool you, sweetheart. I’m just trying to keep up with you.”

The teasing faded when her tone softened. He went still for a beat, watching her over the rim of the firelight. The way her voice changed—gentler, certain—always hit him harder than he expected. His fingers flexed against her neck, grounding himself in the feel of her.

He exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting in something quieter this time. “You make the storm worth standing in,” he said simply. “Always have.”

When her thumb brushed his jaw, he caught her wrist gently, pressing a kiss to the inside of her palm. “You don’t have to tell me, Lena,” he murmured against her skin. “I already know.”

The kiss she gave him afterward stole whatever words might’ve come next. He kissed her back just as slow, one hand sliding into her hair, the other still steady at her waist. When she pulled away, forehead resting against his, he stayed there—breathing her in, firelight flickering across both of them.

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “If this is what being corrupted looks like,” he said softly, “I’ll take the blame.”

Then, quieter still, almost just for her: “Looks damn good on you too.”

Lena’s smile lingered against his, soft and amused. “You’re damn right it does,” she murmured, her voice low but playful. “I wear corruption well.”

Her thumb brushed along his jaw again, slow and affectionate, tracing the warmth left behind by the firelight. “And for the record,” she added, tilting her head just slightly, “the neighborhood meetings were probably happening long before me. You just didn’t notice ‘cause you were too busy pretending you didn’t own shirts with buttons.”

That earned her the grin she was fishing for—the one that started small and real before tugging all the way to his eyes. God, she loved that grin.

She leaned back enough to see him fully, her cocoa-cool tone softening at the edges. “You know something, Maren? You really don’t give yourself enough credit. Everyone out here’s got a good story about you. They see how you show up, how you take care of things—and not just the house, but people. You’re… steady.”

Her voice dipped, quiet but sure. “You make things feel safe just by being in them. Even the chaos.”

The fire cracked softly between them, and for a moment neither moved. The world felt suspended—smoke curling into stars, the bench warm beneath them, his hand still firm against her hip like an anchor.

She smiled, slow and sincere. “So yeah,” she said finally, “call it corruption if you want. But I think you were just overdue for a little color.”

Her tone lightened, that spark of mischief sliding right back in. “Besides, if you really want to protect your reputation, you should’ve thought of that before you let me talk you into string lights and mums. There’s no going back now. You’re officially part of the fall aesthetic.”

His quiet laugh answered her, and she grinned wider, proud and content all at once.

For a few long breaths, they just sat there—two silhouettes in the golden glow, framed by the crackle of fire and the soft hum of night. Lena tucked herself a little closer, resting her head against his shoulder, her voice a lazy murmur.

“Guess the neighbors can keep their meetings,” she said softly, the words blurring with a smile. “Let ‘em talk. They’re just jealous we make it look this good.”

The fire popped again, bright for an instant before settling back into a slow, steady burn.

Lena exhaled, eyes half-lidded, her heart full and quiet. “Yeah,” she whispered, almost to herself, “I wear corruption well. But I love the man it turned into.”

And with that, she closed her eyes, the warmth of him and the fire wrapping around her like the softest kind of ending—
still laughter, still love,
still them.

[we can end it here.]

The morning had started like most of their good ones did—quiet, unhurried, wrapped in the soft amber light that slid through the kitchen window and caught the steam curling off their coffee mugs. Caleb had been the first to rise, the sound of the shower faint through the half-open door before he came out in worn jeans and a gray henley that fit a little too well for someone who claimed to hate attention.

Lena leaned against the counter, hair still messy from sleep, pretending to scroll through her phone when really she was just watching him move through the room with that steady ease that somehow always made her feel both calm and restless at once.

He’d kissed her forehead on his way out—one hand still holding his thermos, the other brushing the small of her back as he passed. No grand goodbye, just a quiet sort of promise in the way he said her name before disappearing out the door. The familiar sound of his truck pulling out of the drive left the house feeling still in his wake—like the air itself had been holding its breath until he left.

By nine, she’d tidied up the kitchen. By ten, she’d wandered into the greenhouse with a cup of chamomile and a half-hearted plan to prune the basil. But her mind kept circling back to the small project she’d been sketching out for weeks.

He built things for her all the time—benches, birdhouses, a table that somehow matched her laugh. Every nail he drove in seemed to hum with care, every piece of wood chosen like he could already picture her hands resting there. And she wanted to give that back. Just once. Something that was hers to make for him.

So, by eleven, she was in his workshop.

The air inside smelled like cedar and sawdust, sunlight spilling through the tall windows in warm, dusty streaks. The workbench was scattered with sandpaper, a small tin of nails, her half-finished project—and an unreasonable amount of determination.

Lena had pulled on jeans, her oldest boots, and one of his flannels, the sleeves rolled high to keep out of the way as she worked. The fabric smelled like him—soap, wood, and that faint, comforting trace of smoke that seemed to cling to his skin no matter how often he showered.

She’d queued up her music—something upbeat and defiant, the kind of song that made the hours stretch softly—and started sanding down the edges of the small frame she was shaping. It wasn’t perfect. The corners were uneven, the stain blotchy, the lines wobbly where she’d gotten overconfident with the saw. But it was hers. And for him.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, humming to herself as the chorus swelled. The wood was warm under her palms, her heartbeat keeping time with the steady rhythm of her work.

And then—
the faint creak of hinges behind her.

Her body froze.

For a split second, she thought it was the wind, maybe one of the windows catching the draft—but then came the low groan of the door fully opening, the whisper of boots on concrete.

Her stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no.

The music was still playing, but suddenly it sounded too loud, too cheerful, too obvious. She spun around, eyes wide, heart thudding so hard she felt it in her throat.

Caleb stood framed in the doorway, backlit by the pale midday sun.

Lena’s instinct kicked in faster than thought—she darted in front of the workbench, stretching her arms out like she could physically block the sight of the project behind her. “Oh no you don’t,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than him, scanning for a tarp or anything to throw over the evidence.

Her hand shot out to flick off the sander, the sudden silence almost deafening compared to the chaos in her head.

The flannel she wore hung loose around her, sleeves still rolled, dust smudging her cheek like she’d just lost a polite argument with the wood. A small curl had escaped and stuck to her temple. She brushed it away, pulse racing as she positioned herself between him and the half-finished piece.

He hadn’t said anything yet—just stood there, arms crossed, one brow arched like he knew exactly what she was doing.

Lena exhaled, trying for casual and landing somewhere between flustered and defiant. Her hand rested on the edge of the table behind her, blocking it completely, her grin a little too quick, a little too guilty.

Great, she thought, of course he’d pick today to play thoughtful boyfriend and surprise me for lunch.

The sunlight cut through the dust she’d stirred up, turning the air golden around them. Outside, the wind moved through the trees, slow and steady, like time itself had decided to linger and watch her get caught red-handed.

She smiled, breathless, cheeks flushed, heart beating fast.

And for the first time that morning, she had no idea whether to laugh, scold him—or kiss him before he could ask what she was hiding.

Caleb leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms still crossed over his chest, that telltale smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he drawled, voice low and unhurried, “for someone who swears she doesn’t keep secrets, you sure look guilty as hell right now.”

He tipped his head, eyes scanning the sawdust in her hair, the streak of stain on her wrist, the oversized flannel that definitely wasn’t hers. The sight of her like that—standing in his space, messy and radiant and completely caught—made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with amusement.

“Should I even ask,” he went on, pushing off the frame and taking a few steps closer, “or are you gonna make me guess?”

She tightened her grip on the edge of the table, clearly trying to hide whatever was behind her, and that only made his grin widen. “Because, Lena,” he added, lowering his voice just a little, “you’re standing like you’re guarding state secrets. And I hate to break it to you, but I’ve got a pretty good record for getting past your defenses.”

He stopped a few feet away, close enough for her to smell the faint scent of pine still clinging to him, close enough that he could see the thin layer of sawdust dusting her lashes. “I’ll give you points for form, though,” he murmured, eyes flicking over her, slow and teasing. “You look damn good in my shirt, even if you’re using it for criminal activity.”

She shot him a look, and he raised both hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll play nice.” He circled to the side, pretending to glance at a set of old chisels while still clearly trying to peek past her. “But I gotta admit, I’m curious. My tools are in play, my workshop’s compromised, and there’s music that sounds suspiciously like your ‘I’m up to something’ playlist. Should I be worried?”

When she moved to block him again, he laughed quietly under his breath—the sound rich, fond, hopelessly gone for her. “You forget, sweetheart,” he said softly, eyes meeting hers. “This is my territory. I can spot a half-finished project in here faster than you can say, ‘don’t look.’”

He reached out then, gentle fingers brushing the smear of dust from her cheek, his thumb lingering longer than it needed to. “Whatever it is,” he said, his tone shifting to something sincere beneath the teasing, “it’s got you written all over it. Which means it’s already my favorite thing in the room.”

He paused, that quiet smile settling in. “Now, are you gonna let me see it, or do I have to start bribing you with lunch?”