Maren & Co.
 

Move somewhere else if you want

The bell above the door chimed as Lena stepped inside, sunlight catching the gold rings on her fingers and the tied-up sleeves of her oversized button-down. She was balancing two coffees, a brown bag, and the smug satisfaction of knowing Caleb hadn’t eaten anything except a granola bar since sunrise.

Maren & Co. still smelled like cedar and sawdust. The fan was humming overhead, saws silent for now, and Caleb was near the back bench — sleeves rolled, head bent, focused.

She spotted him immediately — all broad shoulders and quiet competence — but that wasn’t what stopped her in her tracks.

It was the voice. Loud. Careless. Belonging to a guy she didn’t recognize, standing just off-center in the workshop with a clipboard in hand and a smirk like he thought it counted for charm.

“I’m just saying,” Clipboard Guy laughed, clearly not reading the room, “for a guy who swings a hammer all day, you’d think you’d have more opinions that didn’t sound like a TED Talk. Didn’t realize lumberjacks came with feelings.”

Lena blinked. Once.

And then, very calmly, she set the coffees down on the front counter.

“Wow,” she said, voice light as air. “You talk to everyone who’s better than you that way, or is it just men who can lift things and read?”

The guy turned halfway, confused. “I—what?”

She took a step forward, holding his gaze, expression pleasant but unreadable.

“I mean, let me know if you need help phrasing it better next time. There are more subtle ways to be insecure — but hey, I’m sure that clipboard’s heavy enough to compensate.”

Clipboard Guy’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Lena just smiled.

“You done?”

He blinked. “I—I was just joking—”

“Mm,” she said. “And I’m just bored. So maybe go be unremarkable somewhere else?”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned, already tuning him out, and crossed the shop like he wasn’t worth another second of her day.

When she reached Caleb, she leaned against the workbench like it was routine — because it was. Her hand grazed his arm as she set the brown bag beside him.

“Turkey sandwich, extra mustard, just how you like it,” she murmured. Then, a glance up. Eyes soft now. “And a cinnamon roll. Because I’m generous. And because you made that cabinet look stupidly hot.”

She didn’t look back at the guy as he muttered something and made a graceless exit. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she reached for the iced coffee and slipped the straw between her lips, eyes still on Caleb, teasing and warm and very, very pleased with herself.

“Also,” she added dryly, “next time one of your critics shows up with the personality of damp plywood, maybe warn me so I can bring glitter or something.”

She sipped.

Smirked.

And nudged the sandwich closer to him with the kind of casual authority that said: I will end people for you. And also, eat your damn lunch.

Because he could handle himself.
But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t handle it first.

Caleb didn’t look up right away.

Just kept sanding the edge of the drawer face — steady, slow, like the grain hadn’t done anything wrong — while the faint echo of Clipboard Guy’s retreat bounced off the rafters.

Then he exhaled.

Set the piece down with care. Wiped his hands on the rag tucked in his back pocket.

And finally looked at her.

Didn’t say much at first.

Just let his eyes drag over the whole scene — her leaned up against the bench like she owned the damn place, lip gloss on a straw and murder in her smile, that sharp little satisfied gleam still softening at the edges when she looked at him.

And yeah.

That did things.

He nodded once, reached for the sandwich.

“Didn’t realize you came with a built-in security system,” he muttered, dry, voice still a little gravel-low from not speaking all morning. “Guess I’ll update the website. Custom joinery, reclaimed lumber, and girlfriend with bite.”

Took a slow bite of sandwich. Chewed. Watched her.

Swallowed.

Then, eyes still locked on hers, he added with a faint smirk, “Clipboard’s probably filing a trauma report under ‘accidental confrontation with hot woman who doesn’t need a nail gun to level someone.’”

A beat.

He nudged the cinnamon roll toward her.

“You earned half of that. At minimum.”

Then, quieter — voice dipping lower, not teasing now, just real:

“…You didn’t have to.”

But he said it like he was grateful anyway.

And then, because he knew she wouldn’t let him stay soft for long, he added — deadpan:

“If I say thank you, are you gonna start monologuing about your moral superiority again? Because if so, I’ll just install a plaque over the bench that says ‘saved by Lena: local menace, national treasure.’”

He picked up his coffee, took a sip, then looked at her over the rim.

“I’ll stain it in walnut. Classy, but threatening.”

Then, after a long pause — slower, steadier, and meant just for her:

“…I like you here.”

Like this.
Like always.
Like home

She didn’t respond right away.

Just let the silence settle around them, warm and heavy like the late afternoon light slanting through the windows. One hip still rested against the workbench. Her fingers toyed lazily with the edge of the straw wrapper, but her eyes didn’t leave him.

Not for a second.

Because God, look at him.

All quiet hands and sharp lines and that dry-ass delivery she’d kill a man to protect. Broad shoulders hunched like they carried more than just sawdust and stress. That little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he couldn’t decide whether to be amused or aroused — and probably was both.

She took a slow sip from her drink. Smiled like a sin.

“Well,” she said, voice light but loaded, “you already installed me into your entire life, might as well advertise it.”

She reached across the bench — grabbed the cinnamon roll he’d pushed her way, broke it clean in half, and popped the gooier piece into her mouth like it was earned. Because it was.

“I do like the plaque idea, though,” she added once she finished chewing, licking a bit of icing off her thumb with zero shame. “But maybe something more romantic.”

A mock-pensive beat.

“‘Lena Hartley: Ruiner of Egos. Keeper of Lunches. Too Pretty to Be Argued With.’”

She leaned a little closer, voice dipping with faux sincerity.

“Font: aggressive cursive. Backlighting optional.”

Then she winked.

God, she was so far gone.

Not that she’d admit it in a room with power tools and good lighting, but watching him like this — slow and steady and absolutely hers — it did something to her.

Especially when his voice dropped like that.
Especially when he said I like you here like it was a confession, not just a sentence.

Her smirk faltered just slightly. Not gone — just softened. The kind of falter that meant she felt it, too.

But she didn’t say that.

Instead, she set the rest of her cinnamon roll down, sauntered around the bench until she was beside him again — closer now, hip brushing his.

Then, casually:

“You say that like I’m going somewhere.”

She stole a bite of his sandwich. Unapologetic.

Then tipped her head, eyes all wicked calm and slow-burn affection.

“But if I ever did, you’d chase me.”

A beat.

“And not just because I took the better half of your lunch.”

She didn’t kiss him. Not yet.

Just bumped his shoulder with hers and let her fingers trail across the curve of his wrist as she reached for the coffee again. Like a promise.

Like I’m here.

Like this is us.

Then, with a lazy grin:

“Now eat, woodsman. I’m not hauling your dramatic, underfed ass to the ER if you pass out in the middle of a custom sideboard.”

And just like that, the softness slipped back into something sassier — the way it always did when it was too honest, too close.

Because the intimacy?

That was theirs.
And everyone else just got the show.

Caleb didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when she was standing there with cinnamon sugar still at the corner of her mouth, eyes sharp enough to slice through drywall and soft enough to undo him at the same time. Not when the shop looked like this—late light spilling through the big front windows, dust motes turning in the air like gold, the hum of the fan keeping time with the beat of his pulse. Not when she was close. Too close. Exactly where he wanted her.

He let his hand drift, slow and deliberate, across the workbench until his knuckles brushed the inside of her arm. Barely there. Just enough to ground himself in the warmth of her. Her skin was cooler than the cedar under his palms, but the electricity was instant. Familiar. Addictive.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low, steady, carrying that gravel it only got when she cornered him like this. “I’d chase you.”

He held her gaze while he said it, let it land between them like it wasn’t a joke, wasn’t banter. Because it wasn’t.

A corner of his mouth curved, subtle, barely-there—his version of a grin. “Not because of the sandwich. Or the cinnamon roll. Or because you’re too pretty to be argued with—though, you are.” He leaned an elbow on the bench now, closing the gap even more, head tipped slightly like he was studying her. “I’d chase you because you don’t run from much. And if you did? It’d be worth following.”

The words hung in the air. Stuck there, in the smell of sawdust and varnish and the faint sweetness of the coffee she’d brought him.

He didn’t try to soften it with a joke. Not right away. Instead, he plucked the bitten sandwich from the paper, took a measured bite, and chewed like the whole damn world hadn’t just shifted on its axis.

“See?” he said after a moment, voice calm, almost teasing again. “I’m eating. Happy? No ER run today. Just two grown adults in a shop, one of whom apparently moonlights as my PR manager, bodyguard, and part-time demolition crew.”

His eyes tracked hers, quiet amusement glinting there before his hand moved again. He reached up without ceremony and brushed his thumb along the corner of her mouth. Not rushed. Not theatrical. Just steady, gentle, like it was the most natural thing in the world to wipe icing from her skin and claim the closeness that came with it.

He didn’t look away while he did it.

“Plaque can wait,” he murmured, voice dipped low, warm enough to curl into her bones. “But the backlighting? Non-negotiable. You deserve it.”

Then he leaned, shoulder to shoulder, pressing into her just enough to return the bump she’d given him earlier. His touch lingered, his hand still brushing the edge of her wrist as if he couldn’t quite stop.

“Stay as long as you want, Lena,” he added, quieter now, like it was a secret meant only for her. His tone was bone-deep certain, the kind that didn’t leave room for doubt. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And then—because that was who he was—he turned back to his sandwich, slow and deliberate, chewing with maddening calm like he hadn’t just dropped the truth on her and gone right back to lunch.

She didn’t speak right away.

Just watched him — slow and steady, chewing like her heart wasn’t out here doing backflips in her chest over the way he chewed. Like he wasn’t out here saying I’d chase you and meaning it with that soft, quiet steel she could never resist.

God, he wrecked her.

Not with grand gestures. But with things like this.

The casual brush of his thumb across her mouth like it was habit. The way his voice dipped just for her. The fact that he always looked like the kind of man you could build a life with — and then proved it, every single day.

She shifted slightly, leaning a little more into him, letting her gaze linger on the way his forearms flexed as he lifted the sandwich again. Calloused hands. Faded scars. That damn leather cuff she gave him two birthdays ago still snug around his wrist, worn in now — like everything else between them. Like four years that felt equal parts wild and steady.

Yeah, she thought. That’s mine.

No one else got to see him like this. No one else got him like this. Not the softness, not the stillness, not the quiet certainty that lived under all that grit and sawdust.

She let herself take a slow breath. Let it settle.

Then, lightly:
“I did the garden this morning. After you left me abandoned and shivering in those tragically empty sheets.”

Her eyes sparkled as she said it — teasing, but warm underneath. The kind of warmth that only came from loving someone so completely it was stitched into your morning routine.

“Pulled the basil before the frost can ruin it. Covered the tomatoes. Moved the mint to the porch because someone keeps forgetting how aggressive it is.” A pointed look. “Also had a full conversation with that sweet old man from the post office about fall squash and the tragic state of our neighborhood squirrels. He says hi, by the way. And that you still owe him a birdhouse.”

She reached for the coffee she’d brought, took a sip, then tapped the lid with her nail. “And after I saved the garden and maintained our local PR relationships, I came straight here. Because I missed you. And also because I didn’t trust you to eat anything other than stale granola and martyrdom.”

Her voice gentled then, just a touch.

“But mostly because I missed you.”

She let that sit for a second. Then — because they didn’t always have to fill the space — she just brushed a bit of sawdust off his shoulder, flicked it to the floor, and rested her hand there for a moment longer than necessary.

“Tell me about your day,” she said finally, quieter now. “Besides the clipboard guy I lovingly verbally dismantled.”

Her tone was light. But her eyes? Still locked on his like she was listening with everything she had.

Because she always was.

Caleb didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t have to.

Just sat there in the golden hum of late afternoon, listening to her — every rise, every fall, every word folded in with that quick, effortless rhythm that sounded exactly like home.

By the time she finished, his sandwich was half gone, the silence thick with all the things they didn’t need to explain.

He set it down carefully, wiped his hands on a rag, and leaned back against the bench beside her. Their arms brushed. Her perfume — something warm, green, and stubborn, like rosemary and rain — cut through the sawdust in the air.

“Sounds like you handled the whole damn town while I was in here sanding my soul into a sideboard,” he said finally, voice quiet but edged with a smile. “Basil, PR, squirrel diplomacy. Hero work.”

He looked at her then — really looked. Eyes soft, mouth curved just enough to betray the pull she had on him.

“And I’ll have you know,” he added, “I did eat breakfast. Half a granola bar. Might’ve even chased it with a heroic amount of coffee. You know, balance.”

A pause. His gaze lingered on her hand still resting near his shoulder, her thumb tracing the edge of the workbench like it was him.

“I missed you too,” he said, low and honest, the words landing somewhere between confession and fact. “Shop feels different when you’re not here. Quieter. Less—” he exhaled softly, searching for it, “—alive.”

The light shifted, crawling higher along the floorboards. He reached for his water bottle, took a sip, then leaned forward on his elbows, forearms resting against his knees.

“Day was good, though,” he said after a moment. “Built that walnut cabinet for the Taylors. Fit came out clean. Started on a frame job for a new client — couple from Evergreen, bought an old fixer. Wants the trim to look original, but half of it’s termite dust. Spent an hour talking him out of using pre-fab.”

He smirked. “Then clipboard guy showed up. You know how I feel about being told to ‘smile more’ in my own damn shop.”

He glanced sideways at her, eyes glinting. “You showing up when you did might’ve saved me from a very polite homicide.”

Then, quieter, warmer: “You’ve got good timing.”

He reached for the cinnamon roll half she’d left, tore a small piece, and held it out toward her — casual, easy, like muscle memory.

When she leaned in, he didn’t move his hand away right away. Let her take the bite slow, close, their fingers brushing.

“Garden looks good, by the way,” he murmured. “I noticed the mint’s migrating again. I was gonna move it back, but then I remembered you saying it was a lesson in boundaries. I’m still not sure if you meant for me or the mint.”

He smiled then — that rare, tired, genuine smile that hit his whole face, that made him look years younger and twice as undone.

“Thanks for the food, Lena,” he added, voice soft but certain. “For the coffee. For showing up.”

He leaned a little closer, enough for his shoulder to press into hers. Not a move. Just an anchor.

Then, dryly: “And for not actually committing homicide. I like my job. And I like you in this shop more.”

His eyes lingered on hers — steady, unguarded — before he looked back at the bench, the half-eaten sandwich, the life they kept building in between sawdust and sarcasm.

“Stay a while?” he asked, quiet. “I’ll let you pick the next project to name.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Just tilted her head, lips twitching like she was genuinely weighing her options. Then she gave an exaggerated sigh and pulled back just slightly — dramatic, teasing — like she might actually walk out the door instead of melt right into him.

“Mm. I don’t know, Caleb,” she said, drawling his name like it was a challenge and a kiss at the same time. “I’ve got a very busy schedule today. More heroic coffee deliveries. Possibly alphabetizing the spice rack just to remind you that coriander does not belong in the ‘sweet’ section.”

Her shoulder nudged his. Light, flirty. Familiar.

“But…” she murmured, drawing the word out as her fingers skimmed along the edge of the workbench — slow and idle, but her whole focus still locked on him, “...if you insist on being all sweet and sentimental in this golden hour lighting like some kind of romantic woodworker fever dream…”

She looked over at him then. Really looked. The sunlight catching the fine dust on his skin, the curl of his mouth still half-formed from that smile he only ever gave her, the way his body leaned slightly toward hers like he didn’t even realize it anymore.

Her voice dropped, softer now. But no less smug.

“…you should probably be warned: I’m not that productive when I stay. Distracting, even. Real liability. You might regret it.”

Except they both knew he wouldn’t.

Because this was the dance they’d been doing for four years — half sarcasm, half sanctuary. And every time he asked her to stay, she did. Without hesitation. Without needing to say it back. Because he already knew.

So instead of confirming it outright, she reached for the cinnamon roll again, tore another piece, and popped it into her mouth with an infuriatingly casual shrug.

Then, around a bite of sugar and sass, she added lightly:

“...but sure. I’ll stay.”
A beat.
“Just long enough to make your life very difficult.”

And she smiled — slow, knowing, content — like she was already planning on never leaving.

Caleb didn’t even pretend to hide the grin this time.

It started small — a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a quiet exhale through his nose — but by the time she said “very difficult,” it had turned into a full, helpless smile. The kind that softened his whole face, that made the lines near his eyes show, that gave him away completely.

He leaned back on the bench, elbows braced behind him, watching her like she was the only thing worth seeing in a room full of things he built with his own hands.

“Distracting, huh?” he said, voice low and lazy. “Pretty sure you’ve been a liability since day one, Hartley. Shop insurance probably has a clause with your name on it.”

He nudged her knee with his, the contact easy and familiar — the kind of thing that said this is ours.

Then, quieter, more like himself:
“You staying doesn’t mess with my productivity, Lena.”

He tipped his head slightly, eyes still on her.
“It’s the reason I get anything done.”

And it was true.

He built better when she was around. Talked more. Laughed more. Remembered to eat. The shop felt less like a workspace and more like a heartbeat when her voice was in it — steady, unpredictable, alive.

She didn’t say anything, just chewed the bite of cinnamon roll like she was trying not to smile.

Caleb exhaled through a small laugh, picked up a sanding block, and ran his thumb over the grit like he needed something to do with his hands.

“You know,” he said finally, tone back to its usual dry calm, “you talk a big game about being distracting, but all you’ve done so far is steal the gooey half of my cinnamon roll and verbally harass my condiment organization system.”

He looked over, smirk in place.
“At this rate, I’m gonna have to start charging you rent.”

A pause.

He let the teasing hang there, then softened again — voice gentler, meant only for her.

“But if staying means I get this…” His gaze flicked between her and the light pooling across the bench, “…you can stay as long as you want.”

He reached out — slow, deliberate — and brushed a thumb across her jaw, catching a streak of flour-dust or maybe sawdust she’d picked up just by being near him.

Then, grinning again:
“Just don’t touch my spice rack. The coriander’s fine where it is.”

He went back to his work after that, head bowed over the wood, smile still tugging at his mouth — because she was still there.

And as far as Caleb Maren was concerned, that was the best kind of distraction there was.

She should let it go.

Should just sit there and let his sweetness wash over her like sunshine and sawdust — like he hadn’t just casually said something that could undo a lesser woman. Like her chest wasn’t already aching with the kind of affection that made her want to carve his name into the damn workbench.

But she was Lena Hartley.

And restraint had never been her strongest trait.

So instead, she leaned in slow — slow enough to make it count — eyes narrowed with mock offense, voice dipped into that sultry‑sweet register that always made him a little twitchy.

“Rent, huh?”

A beat. Her fingers ghosted along the inside of his wrist — featherlight, teasing — just enough to make him pause what he was doing without actually making him stop.

“Bold of you to assume I’d pay in cash, carpenter.”

She smirked, lips glossed and dangerous, and tilted her head like she was thinking about it — like she wasn’t already halfway to making good on her threats.

“I could reorganize your tools by color. Or alphabetically. Or worst of all… by vibe.” She grinned, sharp and sweet, before dragging her nail up the seam of his shirt sleeve. “Could redecorate the whole shop. Add some candles. Maybe a little moody jazz. Or how about Sweet Emotion pouring through the speakers while I give you a little show?” (classic rock vibe reference)

Then, breezily: “Or I could do a slow, torturous strip tease to Sweet Emotion while you try to sand a cabinet leg. You have been warned.”

But even as she spoke, her fingers drifted higher — across the slope of his shoulder, up the back of his neck — and when she leaned in, it wasn’t with a smirk anymore.

It was quiet. Intimate.

Her thumbs circled gently, finding the knots she knew by heart. Her mouth was close enough to brush his jaw if she leaned just a little more — but she didn’t. Not yet.

“You joke,” she whispered, “but you really might regret it.”

She kneaded into his shoulders — firm, practiced, the way he liked — and let herself settle behind him like she belonged there. Because she did. Four years didn’t lie. Neither did the way he always exhaled like this when she touched him — like his whole body just knew.

And God, she loved him for it.

Loved this quiet steadiness they’d built — all the soft things they didn’t show the world, all the messy, teasing, ordinary magic of choosing each other again and again.

She dropped a kiss to the back of his neck — light, unhurried — then rested her chin on his shoulder and murmured into the curve of his ear:

“…but lucky for you, I’m too cute to be charged rent.”

Then she smiled against his skin — slow, knowing, content — and let her fingers keep working, because this?
This was exactly how she wanted to spend the rest of her day.
Distracting him.
Loving him.
Savoring every second of it.

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.”

Caleb froze for just a beat, breath catching somewhere between disbelief and laughter — because God, this woman. One second she was handing him lunch like some domestic dream, and the next, she was wrecking his entire sense of gravity.

He let out a quiet breath that sounded a lot like a laugh, though there was nothing casual in his eyes when they met hers. “Both?” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “You really don’t believe in easy choices, do you?”

Her fingers were already at his shirt, her mouth tracing heat down his jaw, and all that calm he usually carried like armor started to slip. He managed to whisper, “You make breathing optional, you know that?” before she kissed him again — and that was it. The rest of the world went quiet.

When she pulled back just long enough to talk, he was grinning now, that slow, crooked grin that always came right before he said something that would make her roll her eyes. “You’re the only person I know who can make sawdust sound like poetry,” he said softly, forehead pressing to hers. “And for the record, the cinnamon roll comment was taken wildly out of context.”

She arched into him again, teasing and fearless, and something in him melted all over again — the way it always did when she stopped pretending not to care. He slid one hand along her jaw, the other to the small of her back, steady and certain. “You think I was ever gonna stop trying to be a gentleman?” he murmured, smiling against her skin. “Not with you standing here daring me not to.”

Her hands found his back pockets, and he let out a quiet exhale that was half amusement, half surrender. “Bench’ll remember,” he said. “So will I.”

Then she kissed him again — slower this time, deep enough to erase the last bit of distance between them. His hand moved to the edge of the workbench beside her, steadying them both as the sound of scattered tools clattered across the floor.

When she whispered those last words, he looked at her for a long moment — all mischief, all love, all awe. “Finish what I started?” he repeated, voice soft, reverent even. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, still smiling. “Lena, I don’t think I ever stopped.”

And then he kissed her again — not rushed, not wild, just sure — the kind of kiss that said everything they didn’t need to. The hum of the shop filled the quiet, the afternoon light shifting around them, dust motes swirling like memory in the air.

When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers, still catching his breath. “You,” he murmured, his voice steady again, full of warmth. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever built without a blueprint.”

Outside, the light turned gold. Inside, the world stilled around them — two people, one heartbeat, and a story that didn’t need words to be understood.

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t have to.

Because her hands were already at the hem of his shirt — slow, deliberate, and unrepentant. She lifted it inch by inch, knuckles grazing skin, until the fabric cleared his chest and shoulders and hit the ground behind them with a soft thud.

“You know,” she murmured, dragging her fingers down the solid warmth of him, nails skimming just enough to make him twitch, “it’s reckless to leave the front door unlocked when you’re planning to sin like this.”

She smirked as his breath hitched. Her palm flattened against his stomach, then drifted lower — down the sharp dip of his torso, until it pressed firmly over him through his jeans. “What would the neighborhood watch say, Maren?” she teased, all sugar-laced fire. “Sign still says open.”

She gave him a slow squeeze, biting her lip at the feel of him already hard beneath her hand. “God, you really weren’t kidding,” she whispered. “You are a hands-on kinda guy.”

Then she kissed him again — open-mouthed, hungry, her tongue dragging heat from the seam of his mouth as her hips pressed forward, matching pressure for pressure. His hand tightened at her back and she felt him unravel — the low, wrecked sound that escaped his throat making her knees go soft.

She pulled back just long enough to whisper, lips brushing his ear, “Lock the door, flip the sign, and lose the rest of these jeans before I climb you like the scaffolding you pretend you don’t miss.”

Another kiss — deep, messy, perfect.

Then she leaned back on the workbench, deliberately spreading her thighs just enough to let him slot between them.

“C’mon, Mr. Gentleman,” she said, breathless and grinning like sin itself. “You gonna finish what you started, or do I have to build it myself?”

His lungs felt empty, but the low, wrecked sound that had escaped Lena's throat when his hand tightened on her back was a shock of adrenaline that punched the air right back into him. The tease about the neighborhood watch was just Lena—all sugar-laced fire, and she knew exactly how much it unhinged him.

"You're a menace," he muttered against the seam of her mouth, then pulled back just enough, his eyes dark and fixed on hers.

He reached behind him, not breaking eye contact. The click of the deadbolt was loud, final, and he followed it by slapping the sign. The thwack of the CLOSED sign hitting the glass felt less like a boundary and more like a starting gun.
He was back on her in a flash, pressing into the cradle of her thighs on the cool edge of the workbench, swallowing her breathless, wicked grin with a punishing kiss.

"Finish it? I was going to finish it the second you walked in here," he growled, his hands sliding down her ribs. "You just had to take the scenic route."
His fingers found the button of her jeans, making quick work of it, then the zipper, dragging it down. He barely gave her time to register the chill before he was shoving the denim down her hips, tossing them to the floor with the rest of her clothes.

He lifted her, spinning her slightly on the workbench so she was pressed against the rough texture of his bare chest. He felt her legs wrap around his waist, the soft pressure grounding him.

"Scaffolding, huh?" he murmured, burying his face in the curve of her neck, sucking a quick, sharp mark just below her ear. "Guess I'll start the climb."

Oh, God.

The sound of the deadbolt sliding home did something to her spine she couldn’t even name. That heavy click and the thwack of the CLOSED sign slapping glass was like the starter pistol of a race she’d been holding back from all morning. Every nerve in her body went taut; heat crawled up her throat.

She had just enough breath left for a throaty laugh.
“Finally,” she whispered, her grin all slow burn and trouble. “Took you long enough to lock the damn door, Maren.”

Then his mouth was on hers—hot, hard, claiming—and her laugh cracked into a gasp. His hands were already dragging down her jeans, fingers rough against her skin, and she shivered as cool air hit her thighs. His chest pressed to hers, all hard muscle and sawdust grit, and she swore she’d never wanted anything more in her life than the way he felt against her.

When his mouth found the curve of her neck and his teeth closed just enough to leave a mark, she let out a low, wrecked sound that echoed off the shop walls. “Oh, you’re gonna leave that there?” she breathed, nails sliding down his back. “Guess I’ll need to return the favor.”

And then she did—scraping her teeth along his jaw, biting just hard enough at the edge of his collarbone to make him hiss. She felt his pulse hammering under her mouth and smiled, wicked and warm.

Her hands slid lower, undoing his belt and button with deliberate slowness, teasing the edge of his self-control. “Turnabout’s fair play,” she murmured, lips ghosting over his ear. “You stripped me; I get to undress you.”

She shoved his jeans down his hips, palms following the line of his thighs until denim hit the floor. Now there was nothing but heat and skin between them. Her hand slid back up and over him—no fabric barrier now, just the weight of him heavy and hot in her palm.

“God, Caleb…” she whispered, a tremor of awe in her voice she didn’t even try to hide. “Every damn time.”

She stroked him once, slow, and felt his body shudder against hers. “Look at you,” she teased softly, biting her lip, eyes glittering up at him. “All that control, gone the second I touch you.”

Then she leaned back on her palms, shifting so she was spread out across the workbench—cheeks flushed, hair spilling everywhere, legs open and inviting. She tilted her chin up, that playful little smirk still in place even as her eyes went dark.

“Your move, mountain man,” she said, voice low and velvet. “You’ve got me right where you want me.”

And she held herself there—displayed, waiting—for him to take her like he’d promised.

The words hit him like a physical blow, a one-two punch of challenge and surrender that stole the air from his lungs. Your move, mountain man. A low groan tore from Caleb’s throat, a rough, guttural sound that was part prayer, part curse. His control, already hanging by the thinnest of threads, snapped completely. Everything in the world narrowed to her—sprawled across the scarred wood of his workbench, a beautiful, wild offering amidst the sawdust and shavings.

He saw the flush high on her cheeks, the dark storm brewing in her eyes, the way her hair fanned out like a halo around her head. She was temptation and sin and salvation all at once, and he was a drowning man.

He took a step forward, his own body trembling with a need so fierce it was almost painful. His gaze dropped to the faint, purpling mark his teeth had left on the pale skin of her neck, a possessive, primal brand that his eyes traced like a map. He wanted to cover her in them, mark every inch of her as his.

His hands found her thighs, calloused palms sliding over the impossibly soft skin. He didn't lift her, not yet. He just knelt between her legs, his big frame crowding the space, his head dipping low. "Every damn day," he rasped, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name, answering her earlier whisper. "You have me right where I'm wrecked."

His mouth found the inside of her knee, kissing a slow, hot path up her thigh while his thumbs stroked lazy, maddening circles higher and higher. He felt the shiver that wracked her body, heard the hitch in her breath, and a possessive satisfaction roared through him. She could tease him, push him, break him down with a single look, but he could do this to her. He could make her come apart in his hands.

He finally rose, bracing his hands on the workbench on either side of her hips, caging her in. He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers, their ragged breaths mingling in the small space between them. His eyes locked on hers, dark and raw with the truth of his obsession.

"You think this is a game," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her skin. "You think you have any idea what you do to me?"

Without waiting for an answer, he positioned himself at her entrance, the heat of her slick and ready for him. He pushed in slowly, a torturous, deliberate glide that made her gasp his name, her nails digging into his shoulders. He watched her face, watched her eyes flutter closed as he filled her completely, stretching her, claiming the very heart of her. He stayed there for a beat, buried deep inside, letting them both feel the rightness of it—the perfect, consuming fit.

Then, with a low growl, he began to move. It wasn't gentle. It was the frantic, desperate rhythm of two people who had waited too long, who needed this collision of skin and soul more than their next breath. The workbench shuddered with each powerful thrust, the sound echoing in the sudden, sacred silence of the locked-up shop. He was hers, completely and utterly, and he was taking her like she was his last thought on earth.

She swore she stopped breathing the second his knees hit the floor.

That reverent, wrecked look in his eyes — like she was something holy, like he was already half-praying and half-starving — it hit her harder than his hands ever could. And those hands. God. Rough and steady, mapping her like he’d built her. Like he remembered every curve, every freckle, every place that made her gasp.

Her legs trembled when his mouth found her inner thigh. The kiss was soft, but the promise behind it was anything but. A whimper slipped out, unbidden, and she hated how much he heard it — how he paused, smirked, and then kissed higher.

“You have me right where I’m wrecked,” he’d said.

And fuck, if that didn’t ruin her a little.

By the time he rose, bracing his body over hers, Lena was already lost — flushed, breathless, nails curling into the edge of the bench like it might keep her grounded. She tilted her face up to meet him, their foreheads brushing, his breath hot and ragged across her cheek.

“You think this is a game?”

She wanted to snap something smart back — something about how he’d been grinning like it was a game just minutes ago — but the second he started to push inside, the thought shattered. Her lips parted on a gasp instead, her head falling back as her back arched into him.

“Caleb—” The name cracked out of her throat, half-sob, half-moan. Her hands flew to his shoulders, anchoring herself with shaking fingers that didn’t know whether to pull him closer or hold on for dear life.

He filled her completely, the stretch devastating and so fucking good she nearly came undone from the first thrust alone. She met his gaze then — glassy and dark and undone — and something hot and furious bloomed in her chest. Want. Need. Him.

When he started to move, she matched him — hips lifting to meet every desperate thrust, fingers clawing at his back, teeth scraping his shoulder as she choked out a curse. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t soft.

It was theirs.

“Harder,” she growled, her voice wrecked and ragged, her nails dragging down his spine. “Come on, baby. Show me how wrecked I make you.”

And oh, he did.

The workbench banged rhythmically against the wall, tools clattering to the floor and neither of them caring. Her name left his mouth like a prayer, over and over, low and wrecked and raw. She locked her legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, chasing every crash and wave like it was going to save her.

It was saving her.

She kissed him hard — teeth and tongue and heat — and then broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips:

“You’re mine, Caleb Maren.”

A beat. Her smirk returned, glazed and ruined and glowing.

“And I’m gonna make sure you remember it.”

Her words, that smirk—it was like throwing gasoline on a fire. A harsh, ragged laugh ripped from Caleb’s chest, a sound that was more growl than anything human. Her claiming him, owning him, promising to brand herself onto his memory when she was already the only damn thing he could ever think about… it shattered the last piece of his restraint.

“Always,” he bit out, the word a vow torn from the deepest part of him. He captured her mouth again, kissing her with a bruising force that mirrored the frantic rhythm of his hips. This was what she wanted. This was what they both needed. Not gentleness. Not control. Just this—this raw, desperate collision.

He answered her challenge with his body. His thrusts became deeper, harder, punishing the workbench beneath them. The careful, grounding grip he’d had on her hips was gone, replaced by frantic hands that tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to give him access to the pale, arched line of her throat. He marked her there, a possessive bite just below her ear that he knew would leave a bruise, a perfect little reminder for them both.

The world narrowed to the glorious friction of her body gripping his, the sharp sting of her nails scoring his skin, the sound of her screaming his name as the first wave of her climax hit. He felt her clench around him, tight and hot, and that was it. That was everything.

He drove into her one final time, burying himself as deep as he could go, his own release tearing through him with a violence that stole his breath and blanked his vision. A hoarse cry was ripped from his throat, her name swallowed by the kiss he sealed over her mouth.

For a long moment, he couldn't move, couldn't think. He just collapsed against her, his entire weight a dead, boneless thing, his forehead pressed to her sweat-slick shoulder. The only sounds were their ragged, gasping breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against her chest, a frantic, frantic drumbeat that echoed hers. His. She was his. And God, he was so completely, irrevocably wrecked for her.

Her vision blurred for a second — not from tears, not from pain, but from the absolute euphoria crashing through her like a rogue wave. Her body jerked beneath him, fingers twitching on instinct as every nerve in her lit up and then slowly, blissfully, fizzled out.

Caleb’s weight was solid on top of her — anchoring, grounding — his skin damp, his breath hot and uneven against her shoulder. She didn’t move. Couldn’t yet. Not when every part of her felt like it was humming, melted, satisfied to the marrow.

A lazy, stunned smile curved her lips. She tilted her head just enough to press her nose into his hair, breathing him in — sawdust and sweat and the kind of man who ruins you for everyone else. She dragged her hand slowly down his spine, her touch feather-light now, tracing the marks she knew she left. Her version of a signature.

“Jesus,” she finally muttered, voice raw and low. “You should come with a warning label.”

He didn’t answer — not yet. Just groaned something into her neck that sounded vaguely like a compliment or a confession or both.

She smirked, letting her fingers trail through the curls at the nape of his neck as her breath finally evened out.

Then, voice thick with amusement and utterly without remorse, she whispered:

“Well…”
A pause. Her grin widened.
“Your dad did say this bench could withstand generations.”

Caleb froze. Groaned. And then let out a laugh — that real, broken one he only ever gave her, the one that lived somewhere between exasperation and adoration.

Lena just grinned wickedly and ran her foot up the back of his calf. “He should’ve been more specific.”

She wasn’t moving any time soon. Not when he felt like this — still inside her, skin to skin, pulse to pulse. Not when the late afternoon light streamed across the cluttered shop floor like it was painting the moment just for them.

Eventually, they'd have to shift. Clean up. Face the world again.

But for now? She just tucked her fingers under his jaw, guiding his face up so she could press one last slow kiss to his mouth.

“Love you, mountain man,” she murmured, soft and sure.

And God, did she mean it. Even if they'd just traumatized a piece of family furniture forever.

Caleb’s mind was a static-filled haze, his body a heavy, boneless weight he couldn’t have moved if the workshop had caught fire. All he knew was the soft, solid woman beneath him, the scent of her skin, and the slow, steady beat of her heart gradually returning to normal against his chest. He was adrift, and she was his anchor to the world.

Her voice, when it came, was a low, rough purr that vibrated through him. “You should come with a warning label.” He managed a noncommittal groan into the curve of her neck, the words not quite making sense yet. His brain was still trying to reboot.

But then came the follow-up, the sly, wicked whisper about his dad and the workbench. The words pierced through his post-bliss fog, and a deep, mortified groan rumbled in his chest. He froze, the full implication landing with devastating accuracy. He could practically hear his father’s voice in his head. Oh, God.

Her foot running up his calf and the unrepentant humor in her tone finally broke him. A laugh erupted from him, not a clean sound, but a broken, wheezing thing that was equal parts horrified and utterly smitten. Only she could say something so sacrilegious and make him love her more for it.

He finally found the strength to push himself up on his forearms, just enough to look down at her. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, and that triumphant, cat-that-got-the-cream grin was aimed right at him. “You,” he said, his voice still a wreck, “are going to be the death of me, Lena Hartley. I’m going to have to burn this bench. It’s a family heirloom you’ve desecrated.”

His mock-seriousness faltered when she guided his face to hers, her touch impossibly gentle. The kiss was slow, soft, and it silenced every other thought in his head. Then her words, quiet and sure, settled over him like a blanket. “Love you, mountain man.”

The last of the laughter died in his throat, replaced by a wave of emotion so potent it made his chest ache. He looked at her, really looked, at the woman who had just torn him apart and was now putting him back together with three simple words. He lowered his forehead to rest against hers, his eyes closing for a second as he absorbed the sheer, unshakeable truth of it.

“I love you,” he murmured back, the words feeling like the most honest thing he’d ever said. He kissed her again, lingering, a silent promise that had nothing to do with the chaos they’d just created and everything to do with the quiet, unshakable home he’d found right here in her arms. “Even if you did traumatize my furniture.”

She was still coming down—floaty and fucked-out and smug as hell—when she caught the look on Caleb’s face.

That groan? The one that tumbled from his chest when her comment about the workbench landed? That was exactly what she’d hoped for.

God, she loved him like this. Flushed and flustered. Wrecked and righteous. Trying to reconcile the deep, emotional magnitude of what just happened with the absolute filth of where it happened. A family heirloom, his words. Like they’d committed some unspeakable sin on hallowed ground instead of just having the best sex of their lives.

She should’ve felt guilt. Maybe.
Instead, she grinned—lazy and slow and golden in the afterglow.

Because here’s the thing: Caleb could call it desecration all he wanted.

She saw it as a christening.

Like marking territory, like sealing a vow. That bench had always been strong and steady and familiar. Just like him. And now it carried something more—them. A new layer of meaning. Something raw and real and utterly unforgettable.

She didn’t say it out loud, of course. Didn’t have to.
But a very specific, very smug thought drifted through her mind:

Honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if his parents had done the exact same thing years ago. That sturdy slab of wood practically radiated multigenerational sin and craftsmanship.

Still… she kept that little mental image to herself. She liked her man untraumatized.

What she did do, though, was lift a brow and give him a once-over.
Her fingers traced the edge of his jaw, then ghosted down to the faint bruising at his shoulder where her nails had dug in deep.

“And you are not burning this bench,” she said, voice husky but firm, eyes locked on his. “Don’t even joke about it.”

She let her hand drop to the scarred wood beside her, palm flat. “This thing’s a legacy. You said so yourself. And now it’s got a hell of a story etched into it.”
A pause. Then, deadpan:
“Though maybe we sand off that one bolt. For safety reasons.”

Her smirk twitched wider. She was teasing him, sure. But underneath it? There was reverence. She loved this place. This bench. This man.

And what they’d just done?
That was holy.

She reached up again, gently hooking her hand around the back of his neck to pull him down for another kiss—slow and deep and full of that after feeling. The kind that lingered.

When she finally pulled back, her voice was softer. Calmer.

“You realize this means we have to christen every piece of furniture you build now, right?”

Then—because she could never resist the final blow—
“Legacy, mountain man. Gotta pass it down properly.”

And just like that, she winked.
Daring him to argue.
Daring him to survive her.

Caleb could only stare at her for a moment, brain lagging somewhere between awe and disbelief. One second she was whispering that she loved him, and the next she was defending the workbench’s dignity like it had witnessed a crime. The whiplash was dizzying—and so perfectly, infuriatingly her that he couldn’t even pretend to be mad.

His eyes followed her hand as it brushed the scarred surface of the wood, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Of course she’d lay claim to it, like the bench itself was part of their story now—one more thing she’d turned from ordinary into something that mattered.

When she tossed out that dry little line about “for safety reasons,” he lost it. A sound escaped him—half laugh, half groan—and he actually glanced down at the poor, overworked slab of oak, the back of his neck burning.

“For safety reasons,” he echoed, the words dragging rough from his throat. “You’re unbelievable.”

Whatever coherent thought might’ve followed got erased the second she pulled him back down to her. The kiss was slow, deliberate, full of heat and something deeper underneath—the kind of kiss that stopped time instead of stealing it. It tasted like salt, and sawdust, and her. Like everything that had ever been right in his life.

He barely had time to breathe before she hit him with the next line—the so-called legacy plan. Her tone, that glint in her eye, the absolute lack of shame in her voice—it short-circuited his brain. He could actually see it: half-finished tables, chairs, maybe even a headboard or two, all immortalized in some secret story only they’d know.

And then she winked.

That was it. The final nail in his coffin.

A laugh broke out of him, low and wrecked and entirely defeated. He let gravity win, his full weight settling against her as he dropped his head into her hair. It wasn’t exhaustion—it was surrender. Total, absolute surrender.

“You are a menace,” he muttered into her curls, his voice muffled but laced with helpless affection. “A beautiful, relentless menace. You know that?”

He shifted enough to kiss her temple, the motion instinctive. “Fine. We’ll christen the furniture,” he sighed. “But you’re the one explaining it to the kids someday.”

Her answering grin brushed against his cheek, smug and radiant, and he couldn’t help smiling too—because, God help him, she was going to be the death of him. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

God, he was so easy to unravel.

She could see it—right there in the dazed look on his face, the flush creeping up the back of his neck, the way his entire body short-circuited the moment she started running her mouth again. It was delicious. It was perfect. And it was entirely her fault.

Because of course she was going to stake a claim on the workbench.
Of course she was going to twist it from scandalous to sacred in two breaths flat.
Of course she was going to smirk and mean it.

She was Lena Hartley.
She didn't do halfway.

Her hand stayed on the wood, palm flat, possessive as hell. Not possessive in the jealous kind of way—but in the I-will-throw-hands-to-defend-my-honor-and-my-man-and-this-fucking-furniture kind of way.

Caleb's laugh—low, ragged, like it had been ripped from somewhere deep—rewarded her. She didn’t even have to look at him to know she’d won. The poor man was trying to recover from orgasm and her nonsense. A double whammy he never saw coming.

Then he called her a menace.

Her grin was slow and lethal.

“Menace?” she repeated, her voice sweet as honey and sharp as lemon. “That’s cute. Didn’t hear you complaining about my menace when you were growling my name like it was a prayer.”

She ran her fingers lightly through the curls at the nape of his neck, satisfied with the way he leaned into her touch, wrecked and reverent like she was some kind of altar. And maybe she was. His, anyway.

When he kissed her temple and sighed about future explanations, her smirk returned full force.

“Oh, babe,” she purred, turning her face just enough to catch his mouth with hers—soft, this time. Sweet. Like a cherry dropped on top of a sinfully indulgent sundae.

“You’re assuming we’re telling them anything,” she whispered against his lips, voice smug and sinful and smug again. “I plan to let our future kids think you’re just really sentimental about sanding furniture.”

Then she leaned back, stretched like a satisfied cat, and arched one brow like a challenge. “And I’ll cry real tears when they beg us not to name the kitchen table.”

There it was again—that stunned, helpless look on his face. Like he’d walked straight into the trap and was now too in love to crawl out.

She patted his chest affectionately. “But sure,” she added, mock-innocent. “I’ll explain it. I’m great with words.”

Pause. Beat. Smirk.

“You just better build me something sturdy for the bedroom next.”

And then—because she could—she winked again.

Because she was Lena.
And if she was going to ruin his life, it was going to be beautifully, thoroughly, and with the legacy furniture to prove it.

Caleb was done for.

Every word she threw at him hit like a hammer wrapped in honey. That smirk, that voice, that wicked glint in her eyes when she started talking about “legacy furniture” — it short-circuited his entire higher brain function.

He tried, briefly, to form an argument. Something coherent. Something that didn’t sound like the groan threatening to crawl up his throat.

No luck.

“You—” He broke off on a laugh, shaking his head as he looked at her, dazed and still a little breathless. “You are absolutely unreal, Hartley.”

She was still there, fingers in his hair, eyes lit up like she’d just invented mischief and wanted credit for it. Her hand on the workbench, like she was blessing it. Like she was daring him to disagree.

He looked down at the wood, then back at her hand. Then back at her.

“Gotta hand it to you,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “Didn’t think I’d ever see someone turn carpentry into a religion. But here you are — Saint Lena of the Sawdust.”

Her grin widened. He felt it all the way to his ribs.

When she mentioned the kids, though — the “sentimental about sanding” bit — he lost it completely. A laugh punched out of him, real and helpless, and he had to drop his forehead against her shoulder to get through it.

“Oh, that’s cruel,” he said, muffled against her skin. “You’d let them grow up thinking their old man gets misty-eyed over oak grain?”

She didn’t even blink, just kept smiling that smug, beautiful smile.

He lifted his head, eyes catching hers again, something softer creeping in around the edges. The kind of look he only gave her when the world felt too big, and she was the only thing that made sense in it.

“You realize,” he said quietly, thumb tracing a lazy line up her arm, “I’d build you anything you asked for, right?”

Her expression softened for half a second before that wicked brow arched again.

“And yeah,” he added, voice dipping low, teasing to cover the truth underneath. “I’ll make sure it’s sturdy. Reinforced. Earthquake-tested. Because apparently, I’ve got a reputation to protect now.”

Her laugh broke through the quiet — bright and alive — and he felt it in his chest before he heard it.

Caleb leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear as he murmured, “You ruin my life, Lena Hartley, and I’ll keep building you places to do it in.”

Then he pressed his lips to the edge of her jaw — soft, slow, steady — and smiled against her skin.

“Beautiful, relentless menace,” he whispered. “You win.”

And she did. Every damn time.

God, she felt good.

Not just the afterglow—though yeah, her body was still humming from the high of being thoroughly ruined on a slab of oak like she was some sacred offering—but the deeper kind of good. The kind that sank into her bones, warm and wicked and real. The kind that came from being seen, wanted, worshipped by the only man who’d ever been able to meet her exactly where she was and still want more.

And right now? Caleb Maren looked like he wanted to carve a shrine in her name.

She grinned up at him, smug and dizzy on power, her hand still lazily stroking through the curls at the nape of his neck. His breath was warm against her cheek, his voice that rough brand of post-orgasm rasp that made her toes curl.

“Saint Lena of the Sawdust,” she repeated, pleased. “I’ll take it. Better than Our Lady of Unholy Woodwork.”

That earned her a groan—low and full of the kind of helpless affection that made her chest stretch wide with something too sweet to name.

And when he dropped that soft little vow—I’d build you anything you asked for—well, that was the real killer, wasn’t it?

Because for all her teasing, all her shameless swagger, there was a part of her that never quite believed she’d be loved like this. Not just wanted. Not just lusted after. But chosen. Every day. Every ridiculous, paint-stained, hammer-swinging day.

Her smirk softened into something real, her fingers stalling briefly in his hair. “I know,” she said simply, voice lower now. Steadier. “That’s the dangerous part.”

But Lena Hartley didn’t stay soft for long.

Not when he was still buried inside her.

Her hips shifted just slightly, and her grin turned absolutely lethal. “Speaking of dangerous—pretty sure you’re still inside me, Maren. Might wanna do something about that before we both end up permanently affixed to this bench.”

She rolled her hips again, slow and teasing, a smug purr in her voice. “Not that I’m complaining. But you know. For safety reasons.”

His eyes darkened instantly, and she laughed—bright, loose, so full of joy it echoed in the rafters of the shop.

She tapped her fingers against his chest. “C’mon, mountain man. Clean-up crew's on you this time. I did all the heavy lifting.”

He arched a brow, clearly about to argue, but she silenced him with a kiss. Not a wild one. Not a dirty one. Just soft. Certain. The kind that made promises no words ever could.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes sparkled—mischief and love tangled up in one impossible woman.

She let her fingers trail lightly down the center of his chest and added with a smug little smile, “If I’m gonna be the love of your life, I’m damn well gonna enjoy it.”

And she meant every word.