I don’t do relationships.
The project is too important to mess up with personal complications.
Noah deserves better than my commitment issues.
Eli deserves better than someone who might disappear.
I’m not cut out for…any of this.
“There,” he muttered, letting his head fall back against the seat. “Eight solid reasons why this is a terrible idea.”
But his traitorous mind kept replaying moments from dinner—Noah’s quiet laugh, Eli’s excitement over the disaster map, the way the kitchen had felt warm and welcoming despite its dated fixtures and stubborn drawers. The way Luke could so easily imagine making it better, making it…
“Stop it.” He unbuckled his seatbelt with more force than necessary. “You’re too damned young to have a midlife crisis.”
Right. He just needed to get laid. Clear his head. Maybe he’d drive out to Murphy’s this weekend, find someone uncomplicated who wouldn’t look at him with soft brown eyes, someone who didn’t have a kid who asked Luke to read him bedtime stories before he left.
Luke climbed out of his truck, feet crunching on his gravel driveway. His workshop stood dark and quiet, a reminder of simpler times when all he had to worry about was grain patterns and joint strength. Not the way Noah’s forearms looked with his sleeves rolled up, or how Eli’s face lit up at the mention of treasure hunting, or…
“Fuck.” Luke pressed his forehead against his front door, keys dangling forgotten from his hand. “Get it together, Garrett.”
Inside, his house felt empty in a way it never had before. No disaster maps on the fridge, no homework spread across the table, no quiet conversations over coffee and cookies. Just Luke and his carefully ordered life, exactly as he’d always wanted it.
Right?
His phone buzzed—a message from Noah.
Thanks again for coming for dinner. Eli won’t stop talking about your treasure-hunting theories. Also, found these behind one of the broken drawers. Thought you’d appreciate them.
The attached photo showed a stack of old postcards, their edges yellowed with age. Luke could make out postmarks from the 1940s, little glimpses into the history of those who called the house home long ago.
Before he could stop himself, Luke typed.
Keep them safe. Might be cool to frame some of them if you’re into that sort of thing. The house might be starting to trust you with her secrets.
Noah’s reply was immediate.
