He rolled his shoulders back, grounding himself in the satisfying certainty of sweat, steel, and stone. This was what real adulthood looked like — plans, structure, progress. Lauren was his wife. His partner. The woman he had chosen to spend his life with. It was time she moved on from craft glue and glitter.
Maybe she wouldn’t like hearing it—but she needed to. Tonight he would explain. Calmly. Clearly.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. For a split second, hope flooded him.
But the text was from one of the junior architects, asking about structural calculations.
Tom frowned at the screen. No messages from his wife. No missed calls.
He picked up the sledgehammer again. The metal felt solid and sure in his hands.
One more swing and this wall would be ready for removal.
Clean. Efficient. Problem solved.
CHAPTER 12
Lauren
The soundof tires crunching up the driveway sent a jolt through her.
Tom was home.
Lauren wiped her palms on her jeans and hurried to the door. When she opened it, the sight of him on the porch—broad-shouldered, familiar, tired—broke something loose inside her chest.
He dropped the duffel on the step and reached for her, and she stepped into his arms automatically, the way a body remembers its own heartbeat. His coat was cold against her cheek, but underneath was the solid, beloved heat of him.
Her pain, her anger, her sleepless night—everything melted in an instant. She could breathe again.
“I missed you,” she whispered into his chest.
Thiswas what she'd been aching for all day—Tom's strength surrounding her, making her feel safe and wanted and loved.
He pressed his nose into her hair. His hand cupped the back of her head. “Hey. It’s fine. No harm done.”
She pulled back to look at him. His face was soft. Warm. Affectionate. This was her husband—the man she’d built a life around, the man who held her steady.
Tom’s thumb brushed her cheek. “I knew once you calmed down, you’d see you overreacted.”
The words slid into her like cold water under a door.
She blinked, waiting—waiting for the apology, theI’m sorry,the understanding.
It didn’t come. Oh. The small, fragile warmth inside her fizzled out.
He wasn’t apologizing.
He wasn’t sorry.
She stepped back. Just a few inches, but enough that his arms dropped.
Tom didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter. He simply bent, picked up the duffel, and walked inside like the house. He set the bag down, then turned.
“Come here,” he said.
He guided her to the sofa with a warm palm at her elbow and waited until she’d sat before taking the armchair opposite her.
“We need to talk,” he said, voice level. He folded his hands, composed and maddeningly calm. “I’ve tried to ignore all the crafting and the handmade everything, but… it’s too much.”
