Still, she looked okay with it. I led Lily up the wide stairs, feeling every creak in the wood vibrate through my feet. The hallway at the top was colder, the walls still bare where I’d pulled off brittle old wallpaper. “Sorry it’s so empty up here,” I said, gesturing at the row of hollow doors. “I’ve been working on the main floor, so these rooms are kind of in limbo.”
She didn’t seem to mind. Her gaze darted from room to room, pausing on every shadow and odd architectural detail. I led her left, to the first bedroom, which was empty except for some boxes and a pile of computer parts. She made a face at the smell of solder and old plastic.
“You really weren’t kidding, were you?” she said, gesturing to the empty space.
“Told you.”
“You gonna put a desk in here?” she asked. “The light’s probably really nice during the day.”
I grinned. “I was going to, but I haven’t figured out if I’m more of an ‘office with a view’ guy or a ‘laptop on the couch’ guy.”
She laughed, the sound bouncing down the empty hall. “Why not both?”
We moved on to the second bedroom. This one had a bed frame with no mattress, a battered dresser, and a stack of unopened paint cans. She ran her palm over the windowsill, then turned to me, her eyes soft.
“You should put curtains up,” she said. “It’ll feel more like home.”
I didn’t say anything. I just watched her, memorizing the way she looked in the slanting light.
The third room was the master, at the end of the hall. I’d managed to get a mattress in there, and a platform bed frame, but no headboard yet. An old recliner—a piece the previous owners left behind—sat in one corner, upholstered in plaid that matched nothing. Lily made a beeline for the window, which overlooked the back field and the mountains beyond.
The view was spectacular, better in daylight, but the full moon lit up the sky in a special way tonight. She leaned against the glass, arms folded, and I stood a few feet away, hands shoved in my pockets.
After a minute, she spoke. “It’s beautiful here,” she said, voice almost wistful.
“It is,” I agreed, though I wasn’t looking at the mountains. I was looking at her.
She caught me staring, and for a second, neither of us looked away.
I wanted to close the distance, to reach out and touch her, but I held back. I didn’t want to spook her, didn’t want to make her think this was something she owed me. Instead, I cleared my throat and turned to the recliner.
“This thing came with the house. I think it’s older than I am.”
She walked over, trailing her fingers along the armrest. “It’s not so bad. Probably has stories.”
We moved into the en suite bath. Inside, the space was enormous by old-house standards—ten-foot ceilings, an actual window above the clawfoot tub. The fixtures were original: big porcelain knobs, an arched mirror, and tile that had gone out of style before either of us was born. It was half-lit, the glass block window diffusing the sunset into a weird, milky gold.
I tried to keep the conversation light. “I was thinking of gutting this,” I said, nudging the tub with my foot. “New tile, new vanity, maybe even one of those rain-head showers.”
Lily whipped around so fast I thought she’d hurt her neck. “Are you insane?” She crossed the room in two steps and pressed both palms flat on the pedestal sink. “This is history, Ford. You can’t just rip it out.”
I laughed. “It’s just a bathroom.”
She shook her head, incredulous. “No, it’s a time capsule.” She ran her fingers over the cracked porcelain, then crouched to look at the legs of the tub. “People pay thousands for replicas of these. You have the real thing.”
I watched her as she talked, fascinated by the way her face transformed when she got passionate. She had a way of lighting up, like she’d been waiting her whole life to defend the rights of a bathroom nobody cared about but her. It was adorable, and for a second I wondered what other causes she’d fight for if I let her.
“Fine,” I said, holding up both hands in surrender. “You win. I’ll keep the tub.”
She straightened and fixed me with a look. “Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” I said, and I did the gesture, which made her snort.
Lily stepped back inside the bedroom and turned a slow circle. “It’s . . .” She paused, searching for a word. “Minimalist.”
I shrugged. “I like things simple. I also don’t know what looks good. In California, I bought my loft furnished. Didn’t have to think about it.”
She ran a hand over the dresser that sat against the wall.
