Lena narrowed her eyes, refusing to budge. “You can bribe all you want, Maren,” she said, voice light but laced with steel, “but this one’s classified. Need-to-know basis. And right now? You don’t need to know.”

Her grip on the table didn’t loosen, even as he drew closer—of course he would. The man moved like patience personified, all lazy confidence and soft gravel in his voice, the kind that made reason evaporate. Which was exactly why she wasn’t letting him win this one.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she went on, chin lifting in mock authority. “I distinctly remember you saying you had a long day ahead. Which usually translates to ‘don’t expect me home until dinner,’ not ‘show up at lunchtime and ruin my perfectly orchestrated secret operation.’”

He gave her that look again—half amused, half something that curled low and warm in her stomach—and she pressed her lips together, trying to stay focused. “And don’t you dare use that face,” she added quickly, pointing a sawdust-smeared finger at him. “That’s cheating.”

His eyes flicked down to her hand, to the streaks of stain and the faint tremble she tried to hide behind bravado. God, he was going to see right through her. He always did.

She huffed out a breath and shifted, angling her body even more firmly in front of the project. “You know what, actually? Maybe I am guarding state secrets. Maybe I got recruited by a rogue division of the FBI who really needed someone with excellent aesthetic judgment and a steady hand with wood glue.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Laugh all you want,” she said, grinning now despite herself, “but you don’t get to peek. You already ruin every surprise I’ve ever tried to plan, and I’m not giving you another win.”

Her words were playful, but there was something truer tucked beneath them—a quiet, fluttering mix of nerves and pride. This wasn’t just a project. It was for him. A clumsy attempt at returning even a fraction of what he gave her without asking for anything back. And she wanted it to be hers until it was ready.

When he reached out, brushing a bit of sawdust from her cheek again, her chest tightened. The gentleness of it—the way he did that, always—threw her more than any teasing could.

“Don’t,” she said softly, though her voice had lost its edge. “You’re not allowed to make this harder.”

He didn’t answer, just looked at her in that quiet, knowing way that made her want to laugh and kiss him and maybe throw a tarp over his head all at once.

So she did the only logical thing left.

She grabbed the nearest rag and whipped it up like a flag of war, waving it dramatically between them. “Okay,” she declared, a spark of triumph in her eyes, “you can stand right there and behave like a good boyfriend, or I swear I’ll blindfold you with this.”

She held her ground—dusty, stubborn, heart pounding—but the smile that curved her mouth betrayed her completely.

Because even as she blocked his view, the truth was obvious: there was no version of her that didn’t want him here.

Just not close enough to ruin the surprise. Not yet.

Caleb’s grin turned slow and wicked, the kind that promised trouble long before he opened his mouth. “Classified, huh?” he said, taking another deliberate step forward. “That what we’re calling sawdust sabotage now?”

He stopped just close enough that the scent of cedar and her shampoo tangled in the air between them, his voice dropping to that low, teasing drawl she could feel in her knees. “Need-to-know basis or not, sweetheart, you gotta remember—I built this workshop. If there’s a secret in here, it technically falls under my jurisdiction.”

Her glare only made him laugh softly, and he tilted his head like he was genuinely considering her accusation. “You’re right, though,” he added. “I did say I had a long day. Just didn’t expect it to include catching my girlfriend impersonating a contractor before lunch.”

She threw him that look—the one that landed somewhere between fond and feral—and he had to bite back another grin. “Relax, Hartley. I’m not here to ruin anything.” His tone softened then, more warmth than mockery. “Though, between you and me, it’s kind of impossible not to look when you’re standing there like you’re defending national treasure.”

He let his gaze linger, sweeping over her dust-streaked cheeks, the rolled sleeves, the determined set of her shoulders. “You’re lucky,” he said, a little quieter now, “that I happen to have a thing for women who break into workshops and threaten me with cleaning rags.”

When she lifted the rag like a weapon, he raised both hands in mock surrender, eyes dancing. “Alright, alright—no sudden moves. I’ll stay right here, model citizen, not a peek. You’ve got my word.”

Then, after a beat, he added, deadpan, “But I should warn you, I’m not great at behaving when you’re bossing me around like that.”

Her exasperation drew another low chuckle out of him, and he leaned against the nearest post, the picture of infuriating ease. “Fine. Keep your secret,” he said. “But you should know—whatever it is, it already looks good on you.”

He watched her bite back a smile, and the quiet between them shifted—less defense, more gravity.

He rubbed a thumb along his jaw, eyes still on her. “You know, you don’t gotta prove anything to me,” he murmured. “Whatever you’re doing here, it’s already perfect just ‘cause it’s yours.”

The words hung there, honest and easy, before he couldn’t help himself—his grin slipped back in. “That said,” he drawled, “if the FBI did recruit you, they’re gonna be pissed when they find out your cover got blown by a guy with good timing and better instincts.”

He nodded toward the rag still raised between them. “Now what’s the call, Agent Hartley? You taking me in for obstruction, or are you gonna let me earn some good behavior points with lunch and an alibi?”

Lena arched a brow, lips curving into that dangerously sweet smile that always meant he’d better tread carefully.

“Oh, you’re real funny, Maren,” she said, lowering the rag just enough to wag it at him like a warning. “But newsflash—classified means classified. I don’t care if you built this workshop, drafted blueprints for the walls, or whispered sweet nothings to every power tool in here. You are not cleared for this operation.”

He started to open his mouth—probably to charm, argue, or both—but she cut him off by closing the space between them in two deliberate steps. “And before you try that ‘but I built the place’ line again…” she murmured, tilting her chin up until her lips brushed the edge of his grin, “remember, I know all your weaknesses. You’d crumble faster than pine under a dull saw blade.”

The kiss was quick but distracting by design—soft, slow, and just long enough to make his breath catch before she pulled back with a triumphant smile. “See?” she teased, smudging her thumb over his bottom lip. “Compromised already.”

Then, before he could recover, she pressed a hand to his chest and shoved.

Not hard, but firm enough to make him stumble a step toward the door, laughing under his breath as she followed with all the authority of someone winning an argument she planned to keep winning.

“Go,” she said, sweeping one arm dramatically toward the exit. “Lunch is waiting. My patience is not.”

He lingered in the doorway, still smirking, but she was faster—darting around him to pull the door shut halfway before he could glance over her shoulder. “Ah-ah,” she warned, wagging the rag again. “Eyes forward, Agent Trouble. No peeking. You’ve already breached containment once.”

He held up his hands in surrender, but the amusement in his eyes said he was enjoying every second of her flustered defense.

“Handcuffing you was tempting,” she admitted as she stepped out after him, brushing dust from her jeans. “But then I remembered I’d rather eat lunch than file a kidnapping report.”

As they started toward the house, she tugged his sleeve playfully, her fingers slipping into his as they walked down the stone path lined with early mums and fallen leaves. “And before you ask,” she added, her voice turning teasing again, “yes, I’ll clean up your precious shop before you’re home for dinner. It’ll look exactly how you left it—except maybe a little better.”

She shot him a sideways glance, mischievous light in her eyes. “And don’t even think about sneaking back in early. I’ll have it hidden somewhere you’d never think to look.”

He gave her that look—the one that was all curiosity and quiet affection—and she grinned, bumping her shoulder against his arm. “Relax, Maren. You’ll get your surprise when it’s done. In the meantime…”

She paused, tugging him gently toward the porch, her smile softening. “You can consider lunch my peace offering for the trauma of being denied entry to your own workshop.”

Caleb’s grin was pure trouble, the kind that curved slow and lazy like he had all the time in the world—and every intention of using it to drive her insane.

“Oh, I’m real traumatized,” he said, drawl rich with laughter as he followed her down the path. “Can’t believe I’ve been exiled from my own kingdom. Reckon I’ll need emotional support, maybe a sandwich or two, to recover.”

He gave her a sideways glance that was all mischief and affection, his thumb brushing over her knuckles where their hands fit together. “And for the record,” he added, his tone dropping just a notch, “you’re out here threatening handcuffs and espionage and expect me not to show up early? That’s cruel and unusual punishment, Hartley.”

Her laugh made him grin wider, and he shook his head, pretending to sigh. “You got some nerve kicking me outta my own shop, wearing my shirt like it’s armor, and still managing to look like you own the place.” He leaned closer, voice soft enough that it nearly blended with the rustle of leaves. “But, damn, you do. Can’t even argue it.”

They hit the porch steps, and he let her tug him up beside her, the boards creaking under their boots. “I’ll play along,” he said, hand sliding from hers to rest against the small of her back as they walked inside. “But if you think I’m not gonna spend the rest of the day trying to guess what you’re hiding, you don’t know me near as well as you think you do.”

He waited until she shot him that mock-warning glare before adding, grin tugging back into place, “And don’t worry, sweetheart—I won’t peek. Wouldn’t want to risk being tackled by the FBI’s top recruit. Especially one with that look in her eyes.”

He caught her hand again at the kitchen doorway, pulling her just close enough for his voice to drop to a murmur. “But you better believe the second you call it finished, I’m seeing what you’ve been up to. I’ve never been good at patience when it comes to you.”

Then, because he could never resist pushing one last button, he added, “And if lunch is my ‘peace offering,’ I’m holding out for dessert, too. You started a war, Hartley. Least you can do is feed your enemy.”

The laughter that spilled from her lips made something inside him settle—easy, sure, familiar. Caleb brushed a quick kiss to her temple as he reached past her for the plates, his voice a quiet rumble against her hair. “You keep your secrets, I’ll keep guessing. But next time you break into my shop…” he paused just long enough for her to look up at him, “…I’m charging rent.”

Lena gave him her most exaggerated sigh, the kind that would’ve earned her an award if dramatic housewives had their own Oscars.

“Oh, you poor, mistreated man,” she said, placing a hand over her heart and fluttering her lashes like some 1950s commercial actress. “Kicked out of your workshop, starved half to death, forced to suffer through the unbearable trauma of being adored. Truly, no one has ever known hardship like you, Caleb Maren.”

She slipped her hand out of his, turning toward the kitchen with a teasing sway of her hips. “Now, you just go sit down and let the woman get back to where she belongs,” she added, voice lilting with mock sweetness. “Barefoot, kitchen, sandwich-making—it’s what the good Lord intended.”

When she threw him a grin over her shoulder, her eyes glinted with humor, warmth threaded through the joke. “Don’t worry,” she said, voice dropping into something softer, “I’ll make sure your emotional support sandwich has extra sympathy and a touch of sass.”

She stopped by the sink, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. The water hissed warm as she scrubbed the stain and sawdust from her arms, then her hands—slow, careful, deliberate, like she was washing away the sawdust version of herself to make room for this one. The one that got to take care of him for a bit.

And truthfully, she didn’t hate it. She’d never buy into the Stepford-wife routine, but there was something grounding about the ritual of it—her in his shirt, the smell of soap and woodsmoke, the sound of him moving around behind her like home in motion.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she called over her shoulder, shaking the water from her fingers before grabbing a towel. “You’re still on dish duty after this. Spoiling you doesn’t mean I’m surrendering.”

She grabbed the bread and cold cuts, humming softly under her breath as she assembled lunch. The rhythm of it—the slice of the knife, the rustle of the paper—was almost domestic enough to make her laugh at herself.

Still, she found her smile softening when she caught his reflection in the window. Sitting there, leaning back in his chair with that easy grin, like he already knew she’d cave for him.

“Fine,” she said, glancing at him as she set a plate on the counter, “you win this round. But only because I like feeding my enemy.”

Her tone was teasing, but her eyes gave her away—warm, steady, full of that quiet affection she tried so hard to hide behind jokes.

As she brought him his plate, she brushed a quick kiss to his temple and murmured, “Enjoy it while it lasts, Maren. I’ll be back to plotting your downfall right after dessert.”

Then, slipping into the chair across from him, she smirked. “Though,” she added, meeting his gaze as she bit into her sandwich, “if you play your cards right, I might just let you choose the method of your demise.”

He let out a low, satisfied laugh that rumbled more than it needed to. “Oh, yeah? Look at you—chief negotiator, crown-wearing tyrant of lunchtime. Threaten me with handcuffs and then feed me like I’m royalty? Dangerous combination.”

He picked up his sandwich like it was contraband and inspected it the way a man inspects something precious—two thumbs, a careful bite, eyes closing for the brief second good food deserves. “Okay, I’ll admit it—that’s criminally good. You wrapped sarcasm around a sandwich and somehow it’s the best thing I’ve eaten all week.” He chewed once, deliberately slow, giving her that half-smirk that always made her roll her eyes. “Extra sympathy? Don’t skimp. I need you at peak guilt.”

He tipped his head, watching her at the sink with something like gratitude folding warm and easy into his chest. “You do this for me and I swear I’ll build you a throne out of pallet wood if that’s what it takes.” He rapped a knuckle lightly on the table where his hand rested, sawdust memory tickling his skin. “But—because I’m not totally useless—how about this: I’ll take the dishes now. Payback by elbow grease. You keep plotting my theatrical downfall. Seems fair. Just don’t expect me to go gentle.”

When she murmured that she’d be back to her scheming after dessert, he tipped his head and let the grin get lazy. “Plot away, Hartley. I’ve got a long memory for grudges and a worse one for revenge—mostly because I forget where I hid everything. Besides,” he said, leaning forward on his palms so his forearms showed, “I kind of like being your enemy if it gets me a sandwich and a show.”

She raised the stakes with that little dare about choosing his demise method. He flicked the napkin aside with mock solemnity, then softened. “If I get to pick, I’m going with something merciful.” He reached across the table and curled his fingers around hers, thumb rubbing the back of her hand. “Slow surrender. A lifetime of tiny betrayals—like stealing the good blanket, hogging the radio, stealing your last fry—and making up for it a thousand times with kisses, coffee made the way you like it, and building whatever ridiculous thing you decide we need next.”

He watched the way her mouth twitched and added, quieter, “You feed me, you boss me, you ruin my street cred, and I wouldn’t trade a second of it. So keep the plots, keep the sass—keep everything. I’ll be here, willing to be vanquished.”

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he stuck his tongue out slightly and picked up his fork for dessert. “But know this—if you try to out-scheme me, I’ll meet you in the field of war and retaliate with something truly devastating: I’ll make you pancakes on a Tuesday.”

Lena didn’t even bother to smother the smile that pulled at her mouth. Not for him. Not in their kitchen, in his shirt, with the scent of cedar and roasted turkey in the air and the weight of a quiet life she actually liked beginning to settle warm in her chest.

She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed slowly, watching him with all the unbothered bravado of someone who knew the storm she could summon and wasn’t the least bit afraid of it. His tongue-out defiance only earned him a raised brow and a look that said you sure you want to play this game?

“Pancakes on a Tuesday,” she murmured, mouth half full, voice dry and unimpressed. “Scandalous.”

She swallowed, set her sandwich down, and reached lazily for her glass of tea—iced, with a slice of lemon, just the way she liked it. His work-worn hands and wolfish grin were still across the table, all gruff affection and mock worship, but she didn’t need him to say another word. She felt it in the way his fingers had lingered earlier. In the way he looked at her like the chaos in her was the kind of storm he’d gladly build a house in the middle of.

She picked up her sandwich again, content to let the silence settle as she ate—her version of a truce, for now.

Because let the town believe what it wanted. That he was the gruff one, the brooding craftsman with a heart made of pine and iron. That she was the mouthy one, stubborn as overgrown ivy and twice as tangled. Let them whisper about how he still hadn’t proposed, how she still hadn’t left.

None of them got to see this. The part where she made him sandwiches without being asked. The part where he offered her everything without demanding a thing. The part where the war between them had always been fake—and the peace, real.

And if he thought pancakes on a Tuesday counted as retaliation?

Well. He had no idea what kind of delicious hell she could raise.

Caleb leaned back in his chair, one hand resting lazily on the table, the other wrapped around his coffee mug like he was trying to look casual and failing miserably. The way she said scandalous—slow, unimpressed, that tilt of her chin—nearly undid him.

He chuckled, low and rough, the sound more felt than heard. “Guess I’ll have to up my game, then,” he said, tapping his thumb against the rim of the mug. “Maybe throw in some fresh berries. Whipped cream if I’m feeling reckless. Really give the neighbors something to gossip about.”

Her smirk deepened, and it only made his grin grow lazy, dangerous in the quietest way. “Don’t look at me like that,” he drawled. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to start trouble? You’ve been underestimating me, Hartley. Pancakes are just the first wave.”

He watched her bite back a laugh, and that familiar ache—the kind that felt like home wrapped in mischief—settled deep in his chest. He’d never tell her that this, right here, was what he built everything for. The house, the work, the hours spent chasing perfection—all of it made sense in the soft hum of her laughter across their kitchen.

Caleb leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, voice dropping to something rougher, truer. “You know what’s funny?” he said, eyes steady on hers. “Everyone in town’s got some theory about us. How you’ve got me wrapped around your finger, how I’ve somehow ‘tamed’ you. Makes me laugh every damn time.”

He smiled—small, quiet, full of that patient warmth she always tried to shrug off. “Truth is, there’s no taming going on here. You walk in, and the whole room just changes shape around you. Always has.”

He reached over, slow and deliberate, tracing the back of her hand with a calloused thumb before resting his palm against hers. “You make a sandwich and turn it into peace talks. You build something and make me want to stay put. Doesn’t feel like being conquered, sweetheart. Feels like finally finding a place worth losing to.”

Then the grin came back—just a little crooked, the kind that softened the weight in the air. “Still,” he added, voice lighter again, “if you’re planning on unleashing this ‘delicious hell’ you keep threatening me with, I should probably start carb-loading. Never know when I’ll need the energy to keep up with you.”

He squeezed her hand once before leaning back again, that same smug, tender spark glinting in his eyes. “Just remember,” he murmured, “I build things to last. Even wars you think you’re winning.”

Lena took a slow sip of her tea, hiding her smile behind the rim like it wasn’t already written all over her face.

God, she loved this man.

It was ridiculous, really. The way he could sit there with sawdust still lingering under his nails and a smug glint in his eyes, looking like a half-tamed bear in flannel and flannel again—and somehow manage to make her feel like every smartass comeback she’d ever made had been worth it, just for the chance to hear him call it trouble.

She set her glass down and leaned back in her chair, the wooden legs creaking beneath her like even they knew what she was about to do.

“Well,” she said, all faux-sweet and syrupy, “don’t pull a muscle trying to impress me, mountain man. Would really break the illusion.”

Her tone dripped with sass, but her gaze softened as she watched the way his thumb still lingered over her knuckles, lazy and reverent. She loved that hand. That damn hand that had held her steady more times than she could count—through storms and summers, through breakdowns and porch dances, through her worst days and every last version of her.

The hand that didn’t flinch when she swung first, or when she fell too fast.

The one that still reached for her every morning like it was instinct.

Lena kicked her boot up onto the edge of his chair with a smirk. “Let the neighbors talk,” she said, lifting her brows. “You know they’ve got some whole narrative already—poor Caleb, grumpy mountain man, held hostage by the wild city girl with the short fuse and expensive taste.”

She dragged her thumb across her bottom lip, mock thoughtful. “You think they’d believe it if I told them I made your lunch with love and not just spite?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she reached for her sandwich again and took a bite, chewing with the kind of slow defiance that said she didn’t give a damn if he was planning pancake-based revenge or building siege weapons out in the shed. He could come at her with all the charm in the world—she’d meet him with all the sass he fell for.

Because no matter how good he was at playing patient, she still remembered the version of her he met four years ago. The bratty, stubborn, firecracker version that came roaring out of a burnout job in the city and nearly burned the whole damn town down with her attitude alone. The one who rolled her eyes at plaid and didn’t know a socket wrench from a scone.

And somehow—somehow—this man had loved her anyway.

Still did.

She swallowed, set the sandwich down, and tilted her head at him like she was measuring something.

“You really think you’re ready for the full wrath of me?” she asked, voice lazy, laced with heat. “Because I don’t think you remember what happened last time you tried to out-stubborn me.”

Her foot nudged his chair again.

“You lost. Twice.”

And then, quieter—less playful, more real—she added, “But I’ll let you try again, Maren. Just to keep things interesting.”

Caleb’s eyes tracked the slow tilt of her glass, the way her mouth curved around every word like she was tasting each one before throwing it at him. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t look away. He never did.

“Break the illusion?” he murmured, leaning back just enough to look like he was getting comfortable. “Sweetheart, the illusion broke the second you called me mountain man while wearing my shirt and bossing me around in my own kitchen. Pretty sure I’m past the point of recovery.”

Her boot bumped the leg of his chair again, and he caught it easily with his hand, palm sliding up to rest against the worn leather. His thumb pressed just enough to make her look at him. “Let ’em talk,” he said, voice rough around the edges but threaded through with warmth. “They’ve been waiting for years to figure out which one of us dragged the other into this mess. Let ‘em guess wrong.”

He let his gaze wander over her—the smirk, the soft mess of her hair, the streak of sawdust still clinging to her wrist—and smiled, low and honest. “And for the record,” he said, “I didn’t need to taste the sandwich to know there’s no spite in it. You don’t waste good ingredients on hate. You do it because you like me too much to admit it.”

He watched her eyes narrow, then added, grin deepening, “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe. I won’t tell the neighbors the city girl went domestic for me. Gotta protect your reputation.”

Her foot nudged his chair again, that slow challenge radiating off her like a spark before a flame. He caught it this time—one hand sliding from the sole of her boot to her ankle, holding her there. “Oh, I remember last time,” he said, his voice low enough to vibrate between them. “You called it victory. I called it strategy. There’s a difference.”

His thumb drew a lazy circle just above her boot, his grin all quiet defiance. “And yeah, I lost. Twice. But I figure if losing to you keeps looking like this, I’ll keep showing up for the rematch.”

He leaned forward then, forearms resting on his knees, eyes locked on hers. “You wanna talk wrath? Bring it. I’ll take it all—the fire, the sass, the fight. You swing hard, Hartley, but you never scare me.” His smile softened, voice dipping just enough to be felt more than heard. “You don’t have to. I already know where it lands.”

He released her ankle and sat back again, still wearing that maddening, easy grin. “So yeah,” he said quietly. “Try me again. I’ll lose twice more just to watch you glow about it.”

Then, after a beat, he added, “And when you’re done destroying me, I’ll make you pancakes on Wednesday too. Just to prove I’m a slow learner.”