The realtor, Kara, waved from the porch. She was Diaz’s assistant’s cousin, early thirties, efficient, and tablet in hand.
“Hey!” Kara called. “You must be Bree and Hank. I’m so glad the timing worked. The sellers are already out, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”
Bree mounted the three creaking steps, hand skimming the rail. The porch boards flexed a little, but held. The front door’s paint was chipped around the handle, the kind of wear that came from use, not neglect.
Inside, the air held a faint mix of dust and lemon cleaner. The front room opened into a big, square living space with hardwood floors and tall windows that looked out over the fields.
“It’s… bigger than I expected,” Bree said.
“The square footage is decent,” Kara said. “Three bedrooms, one and a half baths. Kitchen’s dated, but functional. The big draw is the land and the outbuildings. And the fact that you’re still only fifteen minutes from town.”
Hank walked to the nearest window, looking out. “I like the light,” he said. “And the fact that you can’t see the neighbors.”
Bree followed, standing beside him. From here, Copper Moon was a suggestion; a faint line of buildings beyond the fields. Close enough to reach, far enough to breathe.
Her mind flicked briefly to her old apartment; the way the walls had closed in near the end, the way the street noise had felt like an accusation, all those lives moving forward while hers held still.
“This feels…” She searched for the word.
“Open,” Hank supplied.
“Yeah,” she said.
They moved through the downstairs. The kitchen was as advertised: tired cabinets in an orangey oak, laminate counters, and an ancient stove that looked like it had opinions. But the footprint was good. A window over the sink framed the side yard. There was space for a small table or, if she squinted, a long counter where someone could spread out sketchbooks while another someone chopped vegetables.
She pictured herself here, barefoot, paint on her fingers, Hank behind her with a dish towel slung over his shoulder, Brian dropping by with takeout and unsolicited opinions. The image settled with surprising ease.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple; sloped ceilings, more hardwood, and closets that would need organization miracles.
“This one could be your studio,” Hank said in the smallest room, where the light hit just right. “If you ever get tired of going into town.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Studio stays with the warehouse. Bryn’s wall belongs there. But this could be a good guest room. Or a library.”
“A library,” he repeated. “Of course.”
“What?” she asked. “You don’t want floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a comfy chair to hide in when my parents come to visit?”
His laugh warmed the dusty room. “Okay, I’m sold,” he said. “Library it is.”
The primary bedroom overlooked the front field. It was empty now, a blank square of possibility. The faint outline of where a bed had once stood marked the floorboards.
Bree walked to the window, pressing her palm against the glass.
“You okay?” Hank asked behind her.
“I keep waiting for the panic to hit,” she said slowly. “For the part of me that likes safe, small spaces to revolt. But it’s… quiet.”
“Quiet’s good,” he said.
She turned. His face was open, hopeful, and a little wary, like he didn’t quite dare believe this might be theirs. The same look she imagined she wore.
“Hank,” she said, heart thudding. “Do you want this? Not just a house. This.”
“Life with you?” he asked. “Yeah. I do.”
The words landed like a stone in a pond; ripples spreading.
“Okay then,” she said, voice steady. “Let’s see the barn.”
