“Logically, I know that. But knowing it and believing it are different things.” His thumb strokes across my skin. “Yesterday, my brother called. He reminded me that punishing myself doesn’t honor what I lost. Building a good life does.”
“What does that mean for us?”
“It means I’m done treating happiness like a debt I haven’t paid.” His other hand finds my waist, anchoring me. “It means I’m choosing you. Choosing this. Choosing to build instead of burn.”
The certainty in his words sinks into my bones, solid and real. “I choose you, too.”
He leans down and kisses me, his mouth gentle against mine. In his kiss, I taste apology and promise. His forehead rests against mine when he pulls back.
“Let me help you finish this space,” he says. “Let me prove I’m staying.”
I nod because my voice has tangled somewhere behind my teeth.
He releases me and moves back to the wall. “I’ve got the final measurements for the shelves. I need you to tell me exactly where you want them.”
The shift from emotional to practical grounds me. I move beside him, studying the blank wall that will hold books and decorative pieces. “Here,” I say, pointing to a spot eye-level. “And another set here, staggered to create visual interest.”
He marks the spots with a pencil, moving efficiently. “How much weight?”
“Books mostly. Some vintage frames. Nothing too heavy.”
“I’ll reinforce them anyway.” He glances at me. “Better to overbuild than have them fail.”
The care in his planning makes my eyes sting. I open my mouth to argue that I could’ve figured out the placement alone, but the lie won’t form. The truth is, I needed him. The truth is, I’m done pretending I don’t.
I watch him work, his hands steady as he measures and marks. He’s built for this, his body designed for labor and precision. When he reaches up to mark the top bracket, his shirt rides up, exposing the muscles of his lower back.
Heat spirals low and blooms in my pussy. I force myself to focus on the layout instead of the way his jeans hang on his hips.
“What about the armoire?” I ask. “Does it work where it is?”
“Come look.” He leads me to the east wall where the massive piece now sits. “Stand there.”
I position myself where customers will enter, and the sightline opens up perfectly. The armoire anchors the space without blocking the flow. The grain catches the light streaming through the windows, making the wood glow warm and golden.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
“You planned it perfectly.” He moves behind me, his chest a wall of heat at my back. “I just had the muscle to make it real.”
His hands settle on my waist, and I lean back into him. His stature makes me feel small in the best way, protected and grounded. His breath stirs my hair.
“Thank you,” I say. “For showing up. For staying.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He holds me tighter, pressing me against his chest. “You’re stuck with me now.”
The possessive language makes me smile. “Good.”
We stand like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other, while morning light fills the shop. Outside, the town is waking up. Inside this space, we’re building something permanent.
“I should let you work,” I say, but I don’t move.
“Or you could help me.” His mouth brushes my neck, teeth sliding along the sensitive skin. “Tell me what you need. I’ll make it happen.”
The double meaning isn’t lost on me. Heat floods my face and spreads down my chest. “Davin—”
“Say it.” His hands slide up from my waist to just below my breasts. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you.” The words come out breathless. “But not here.” I pause for a beat. “Not in the shop. We have work to finish.” My words lack conviction.
