“Can’t justbuild me thingsbecause you think I deserve them!”
“Why not?”
The question stops her cold. She stares at me, tears spilling over now, and that’s when I step closer. I lift my hands, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t.
I cup her face, my thumbs sweeping under her eyes, catching her tears before they can fall.
“Here’s what I know,” I say quietly. “You came here looking for space to breathe. To figure out who you are without everyone else’s expectations weighing you down. And I’ve watched you light up every time you pick up a pencil. Watched you loseyourself in your work like nothing else in the world exists.” I let her see everything—the certainty, the fear, the love I haven’t said out loud yet. “You don’t owe me anything. And I’m not doing it to make you stay. But I truly believe you deserve your own space, and I want to give it to you.”
“Tank...” She sniffles.
I hate that I made her cry, but I also can’t stop.
“I’m not asking you to decide anything. I’m just showing you that whatever you choose, there’s room for it here.” I press my forehead to hers. “For your art. For your chaos. For all of it.”
She kisses me.
Her lips are salty with tears, a little desperate, and absolutely perfect. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I go—God, I always go—wrapping her up in my arms like I can protect her from everything that’s ever made her doubt herself.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are red, but she’s smiling.
“You’re insane,” she whispers. “We’ve known each other for a few weeks.”
I huff out a quiet laugh, tipping my forehead to hers again. “Sixteen days.” I straighten, brushing my hands down my thighs—not nerves, just grounding myself. “And I knew what I wanted after sixteen minutes. The rest has just been waiting for you to catch up.”
She laughs—wet, overwhelmed, beautiful. “Can I at least help? If you’re going to build me a whole damn studio, I want to be part of it.”
My chest feels like it's breaking open. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Show me what to do.”
We spend the morning laying out the foundation with stakes and twine.
Teaching her to drive stakes is an exercise in self-control—not because she’s bad at it, but because showing her requires standing behind her, my chest against her back, my hands over hers on the mallet. Her hair brushes my jaw. Her hips press back against mine when she swings.
Every touch reminds me of how she feels in my arms, and of how she tastes when she comes apart.
Focus, Granger. You’re building her a studio, not seducing her.
Although... both could happen.
By midmorning, the outline of the studio is staked out. She stands in the middle of it, turning in a slow circle, her expression somewhere between wonder and overwhelm.
“You’re building me a home,” she says softly.
The words hit me in the chest.
“I’m building you a studio.”
“No.” She crosses to me, takes my hands. “You’re building me a place where I can be exactly who I am. Where I don’t have to shrink or compromise or pretend. That’s not a studio.” Her voice breaks. “That’s a home.”
I don’t have words. Don’t have anything except this feeling in my chest that’s too big for my ribs.
Her eyes are glassy. “What if I'm not good enough? What if I can't actually do it on my own?”
“Then you figure it out. And I'll be right here while you do.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. “I'm not going anywhere, Jessie.”
“You're keeping me,” she whispers.
