“Come here,” I tell her, nodding to the lock. “Gotta teach your door who you are.”
She steps onto the porch and looks at the keypad. “That’s fancy.”
“It’s secure,” Riot says. He pulls his phone out and starts tapping. “And it comes with an app.”
I guide her through it, showing her where to press. She sets her finger on the sensor, and the lock beeps soft and green.
“Again,” I say. “It needs a couple reads.”
She laughs under her breath but does it, and the system chirps its approval. Riot steps in beside her and installs the app on her phone, walking her through notifications and settings while she watches the screen with a little crease between her brows.
While they’re focused on that, I add my fingerprint quick and quiet. The lock accepts it without complaint. She doesn’t notice. Riot doesn’t say a word. I don’t plan on needing it, but I’m not kicking in another door. And I’m sure as hell not climbing through a window.
“All set,” Riot says, handing her phone back.
She looks between us and then at the door. “It’s… really nice. Thank you. Both of you.”
I shrug like it’s nothing, even though something warm settles in my chest. “Try it.”
She steps inside and pulls the door closed. A second later it clicks open again at her touch. Her smile is bright and a little proud.
“It works,” she says.
“Good,” I reply. “That was the goal.”
We pack up the tools and carry everything back to the truck. Once it’s loaded, we head inside to wash up. I scrub the sawdust and grime from my hands in her bathroom sink, cool water running over my skin. When I step back into the hallway, the smell hits me.
Rich and savory and warm.
My stomach growls loud enough that Riot hears it and snorts.
“It smells like heaven in here,” I mutter.
The kitchen is full of steam and comfort. A pot roast sits carved and tender on a platter, mashed potatoes piled high in a bowl, corn glistening with butter, and gravy in a warm dish beside fresh rolls.
She glances over her shoulder at us. “Perfect timing,” she says. “Dinner’s ready.”
And just like that, the house feels less like a work site and more like something dangerously close to home.
By the time the dishes are done and the counters are wiped down, the kitchen looks like we were never there. I dry the last plate and slide it into the cabinet while she rinses her hands. Water runs, then shuts off, and the house settles into that quiet that only comes after a long day.
Riot’s boots thud softly down the hallway as he makes another pass through the house. He’s been doing that for the last ten minutes, checking locks and windows and sight lines like it’s second nature.
“Everything’s solid,” he calls. “You’ve got good bones here. I can give you a list of upgrades later if you want. Cameras. Reinforced latches. Nothing crazy.”
“I’d like that,” she says, glancing toward the hall. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he replies, and I hear the front door open and close as he steps out onto the porch to take a call, giving us space without making a thing out of it.
The kitchen feels smaller without him in it. Warmer. She turns back to the counter and reaches for the towel, and when she does I step in close without really thinking about it. My hands land on either side of her, caging her in against the counter. She stills.
Her breath catches, and her eyes lift to mine.
There’s a question there. And something else. Something that’s been simmering all night.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I am.”
