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.