Eli’s finally asleep. Thanks again for coming out.
He’d attached a photo that had knocked the breath from Luke’s lungs—Eli curled up in Noah’s bed, clutching his Captain America teddy bear, disaster map spread across the covers like a shield against bad dreams.
Luke’s hands stilled. He wasn’t even sure what he was making anymore. His usual precise measurements had given way to intuitive cuts, letting muscle memory guide his tools while his thoughts circled like water finding its level.
Water. God, there had been so much of it. Streaming down walls, dripping through ceilings, finding every weakness in the old house’s bones. But what haunted him wasn’t the damage—it was Noah’s face when that first ceiling collapsed. The way his carefully maintained control had cracked, showing the vulnerability beneath.
The way he’d looked at Luke like he was the answer to a question Noah hadn’t known he was asking.
“Stop it,” Luke muttered, reaching for his sander. The machine’s familiar vibration grounded him, but not enough to drown out the memory of Noah’s body pressed against his in the attic, of shared breath and almost possibilities.
His phone lit up.
Can’t sleep. Keep thinking about the house’s story. What else is it trying to tell us?
Luke’s hands shook as he set down the sander.Us. Such a simple word, but it leaked into the cracks of his defenses.
Instead of responding, he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. His drafting table waited in the corner, pristine and precise, but he stayed at his workbench. This wasn’t about perfect angles and measured decisions. This was about…
His pencil moved before he could overthink it. The house’s lines emerged on the paper, not as it was but as it could be. Built-in bookshelves in the living room to showcase father and son’s extensive collection of books. A reading nook under the stairs, with a secret compartment that would make Eli’s treasure-hunting dreams come true. Kitchen cabinets restored to their original glory, with modern conveniences hidden behind historic facades.
A home. He was designing a home.
His phone buzzed again.
Eli asked again if I’ll let you build him a treehouse. No pressure, just sharing the latest request from your biggest fan. I told him it would have to wait until the house was livable again.
Luke’s breath caught. Because he could see it—not just a treehouse, but a whole future. Weekend projects with Eli, quiet evenings with Noah, the satisfaction of bringing this house back to life piece by piece. The kind of life he’d convinced himself he didn’t want, couldn’t have.
The kind of life that terrified him because of how much he suddenly wanted it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Noah woketo Eli’s small form pressed against his side, radiating heat like a tiny furnace. For a moment, Noah let himself drift in that space between sleep and waking, where last night’s events felt more like dreams than reality. As long as he stayed curled up under the blankets with his son, he wouldn’t have to face the carnage, both physical and psychological.
The storm.
That kiss.
His eyes snapped open. Right. That had actually happened. All of it. Noah had no clue what he’d been thinking when he kissed Luke, other than he’dneededto know if his lips felt different from a woman’s. He’d been driving himself crazy all week, replaying Jenna’s assertion that the sexual awakening he was experiencing was more of a sexual acknowledgment than anything else. It had been foolish to do something so impulsive and reckless, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Now, he had to hope he hadn’t scared Luke off as the walls came tumbling down.
Noah carefully extracted himself from Eli’s octopus grip, pausing when his son stirred. But Eli clutched his Captain America plush tighter and rolled into the warm spot Noah left behind. After the excitement of last night, he deserved to sleep in as long as possible.
Noah’s reflection in the bathroom mirror told a different story. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his usually neat hair stuck up in ways that reminded him of… No. He wasn’t thinking about Luke’s perpetually messy hair or how it had felt under his fingers when they’d…
“Stop it,” he muttered, turning on the shower. The pipes groaned ominously—another item for Luke’s ever-growing list of repairs. Luke, who somehow managed to make rebuilding the house from the inside out sound like an adventure rather than an insurmountable task. Luke, who’d shown up in the middle of a storm because Noah called. Luke, who’d kissed him back like?—
The pipes shuddered and ice-cold water hit Noah’s shoulders. He bit back a curse, fumbling with the ancient taps. This was exactly why he needed to focus on practical matters. The house was falling apart, his son was sleeping in his bed because of water damage, and he had a class full of juniors waiting to discuss the symbolism of Gatsby’s shirts.
His phone buzzed as he dried off.
Heading over with coffee. Hoping you won’t mind me getting started on cleaning up the downed plaster today. Need anything else?
Noah’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. How did you answer that?Sorry I kissed you in my attic during a crisis? Thanksfor not running away screaming. Please tell me I haven’t made things weird enough that you’ll abandon my house to rot?
Thanks. Black coffee for me.
Coward, he chided himself. But what else could he say? Sorry I had a sexual identity crisis in the middle of a natural disaster?
