“It is,” I insisted. “It’s small and insecure, and I should be above it.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t push. Only waited, patience radiating from him in warm, steady waves.
I let out a shaky breath. “When I went to Pie Hard yesterday—Lola and the others—they were talking about you. About everything you’ve done around town. Helping Mrs. Atkins with her roof, pulling people out of ditches, crawling under houses, fixing a hundred little disasters. All the ways you show up.” My voice thinned. “And they said it like… you’d have done all of it for anybody.”
He blinked, startled. “Okay, but?—”
“I know what they meant,” I rushed on, because if I stopped now, I’d lose my nerve. “They meant you’re a good man. A helper. Someone who doesn’t think twice.” My hands curled against my thighs. “But all I heard was that I wasn’t special after all.”
He took another step toward me, confusion and something like hurt crossing his face. “Jess?—”
“And I know it’s not fair,” I said quickly. “You’ve shown me—God, you’ve shown me so much these last few weeks. And I shouldn’t need constant reassurance. I shouldn’t fold because someone said something offhand.”
“You’re allowed to fold,” he said, voice low. “You’re human.”
I shook my head. “I just… I panicked. That’s all. Because I know how much you’ve done for me. The hours. The work. The rides and the late nights and the talking me down when I spiraled. And I started thinking—maybe this is just what you do. That I built it up to mean more than it did.”
He opened his mouth, ready to argue, but he didn’t get the chance.
A booming voice cut in from behind him. “There he is! The man of the hour!”
We both jumped. Mr. Caldwell approached from the festival side of the booths, cheeks red from the cold and enthusiasm as he clapped Powell so hard on the back I winced for him.
“Don’t let him sell you short, Jess,” he said, oblivious to the emotional minefield he’d wandered into. “This one’s the reason everything came together.” He pointed at Powell. “This man organized the whole GoFundMe. Got half the county donating lumber and equipment. Called in every favor known to man. And don’t tell me you didn’t—you think I don’t know whose truck delivered the espresso machine?”
My stomach dropped. “You… what?”
Caldwell chuckled, winking at Powell like they were sharing some grand secret. “You got a good one helping you out. Hell of a project manager. Anyway—” He slapped Powell’s shoulder again. “We appreciate you, son.” And with that, he wandered back toward the music tent, humming.
The silence he left behind was thick and electric.
Slowly, I turned back to Powell. “You… did all that?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah. It wasn’t—it wasn’t a big thing.”
“A GoFundMe? A community rebuild effort? Donations? Calling people for equipment?” My voice trembled. “Powell, that is not ‘not a big thing.’ Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged helplessly. “You didn’t need another thing on your plate. And I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me. That’s not why I did it. I just… wanted to help. And maybe try to make up for whatever hurt I caused before.”
My chest tightened. The two versions of him—the one from the bakery gossip and the one standing in front of me—collided with confusing force.
The words scraped out of my throat. “They said that’s just who you are. That you’d have done all of that—for anybody.”
He stilled before stepping close enough that I saw every emotion in his eyes. “Jess. I help people, sure. I’m not going to ignore someone in trouble.”
His voice dropped, rough and quiet. “But I don’t spend my every spare hour fixing just anybody’s damn life.”
My breath caught. He reached up and cautiously brushed his fingers along my cheek, tracing the line with an almost reverent touch.
“You are different.” He said it without theatrics or pretty phrasing, merely a simple statement of fact delivered in that steady way of his, and somehow that made the truth land harder than any flowery declaration. “You always have been. They don’tknow the difference between how I treat folks and how I feel about you. They weren’t there for the other part—the part where I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about you, or the part where I’d find excuses to drive past your truck just to see if you were okay. They don’t get to define what this is.”
The words punched me in the sternum, stealing what little breath I had left. I swallowed hard against the tightness in my throat. “Maybe I just... wanted to believe I mattered to you. Really mattered. Not as another person to help, but as... me.”
He let out a breath like the words physically hit him, his eyes closing briefly before finding mine again. “Jess.” My name on his lips sounded like a prayer. “I don’t want anybody. I want you.”
Something inside me cracked wide open—all the walls I’d built, all the careful distance I’d maintained, crumbling like sugar in rain.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. “For assuming the worst. For running before I gave you a chance to explain. For not trusting you with what scared me. For being so damn stubborn about accepting help that I couldn’t see what was right in front of me.”
