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.”
The barn door protested when Hank slid it aside, wood groaning against old metal. The smell inside hit them in a wave: hay, dust, and old oil. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the boards, striping the packed dirt.
Bree stood just inside the threshold, eyes wide. “This looks like every Pinterest board you’ve ever denied having,” she said.
“I don’t have Pinterest,” he said.
“Sure,” she replied.
The main space was big enough to host a small wedding reception, which she suspected would delight her friend Janice if she ever saw it. Loft space ran along one side, accessible by a narrow staircase. The far end had a raised platform where someone had once stored bales.
“It’s solid,” Hank said, thumping a support post. “Needs some structural love, but it’s not leaning in the wrong directions.”
Kara leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “The current owners used it mostly for storage,” she said. “There’s electricity, but it’s old. We can request a recent inspection before you put in an offer.”
“What would you do with it?” Bree asked Hank.
He turned slowly, taking it in. “Part of me wants to set up a second lift and turn this into a side shop,” he said. “But that’s probably my inner workaholic talking.” He looked up at the loft. “You could hang pieces from those beams. Install track lighting. Host… whatever art people host.”
She tilted her head, imagining. “Mixed shows,” she said. “Work from other artists, maybe some music, some community events. Not right away. But someday.”
“Workshop weekends,” he said. “Moto-art retreats.”
“You’re terrifying,” she said. “And weirdly persuasive.”
A breeze moved through, stirring dust motes. The barn groaned, but held.
