The bolt slides home smoothly. I move to the next connection point.
“Can you shift left about an inch?” I ask.
He does, still determinedly staring at the headboard like it’s the most fascinating piece of furniture he’s ever seen.
The drill quiets as I finish the second bolt, and when I glance up at him, he’s looking everywhere but at me—at the ceiling, at the window, at the instruction manual on the floor.
“What are you doing?” I ask, fighting a smile despite everything.
His eyes finally meet mine, and there’s heat there. Want. But also that self-deprecating humor that’s so purely Cal. “Oh, nothing. Just, uh, admiring this ceiling. Very nice crown molding. Really excellent craftsmanship.”
A laugh bubbles out of me—surprised, genuine, desperately needed. “The ceiling.”
“Fascinating ceiling,” he confirms, his grin turning slightly sheepish. “Also, that wall. Very nice wall. And that corner over there? Top-notch corner work.”
“Cal.”
“What?” His amber eyes dance with mischief and something darker. “I’m being helpful. You asked me to hold the frame, I’m holding the frame. Where I look is my own business.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being a gentleman,” he corrects. “Because if I look at you right now, angel, in those pants and that—” He gestures vaguely at my tank top. “I’m going to say things I shouldn’t say. Do things I definitely shouldn’t do. And you asked for time, so I’m giving you time. By admiring your excellent taste in ceiling architecture.”
My chest goes tight. “Cal?—”
“Next bolt,” he says firmly, looking back at the ceiling. “I’m ready when you are.”
I study him for a moment—this man who’s trying so hard to be what I need, to give me space while clearly dying to close the distance between us. Who’s making jokes about ceilings to avoid staring at me like he used to. Who’s holding my bed frame together with white-knuckled hands because he’s that close to breaking.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“For the ceiling commentary? You’re welcome. I’ve got thoughts about the flooring too, if you’re interested.”
“For giving me time. For not pushing. For—”For still being you, even when everything’s changed.“For helping.”
His throat works as he swallows hard. “Always, Parker. I’ll always help you. Even if it means spending an entire afternoon staring at architectural features to avoid looking at you in yoga pants. But can you do me a solid? It’ll be the only thing I ask.”
“Sure.”
“Stop biting your lip. You’re killing me, angel.”
Another laugh escapes me, and I return to the drill, to the methodical work of assembly. Cal holds the pieces steady, making commentary about crown molding and baseboards that makes me giggle despite the tension, despite the weight of everything unsaid between us.
And for just a little while, in the warm afternoon light of my new bedroom, I let myself pretend that this could be normal. That we could be normal. That maybe, just maybe, when I finally tell them the truth, we might all survive it.
“Last bolt,” I announce, lining it up.
“Thank God,” Cal mutters. “I was running out of ceiling to appreciate.”
The drill whirs one final time, and the frame is complete—massive and solid and ready to hold me and my sons through whatever comes next.
“There.” I sit back on my heels, surveying the work. “Done.”
“Beautiful,” Cal says, and when I look at him, he’s finally looking at me again. Not at the ceiling or the walls or anywhere else. Just me. “Absolutely beautiful.”
“It’s just a bed frame.”
“I wasn’t talking about the bed frame.”
