“Anything,” I said, meaning it.
He chewed his lip, then started sketching. Not a blueprint, just a rough rectangle with a peaked roof. He drew two squares for windows, a block for the door, then frowned and erased the roof twice before settling on a shape that looked more barn than bungalow.
He slid the notebook toward me, shy as a kid showing a test to his teacher. “Is this stupid?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Just needs an entryway, so you don’t track mud all over the place.” I added a small box, then handed the pencil back. “What else?”
He stared at the page, tapping the eraser. Then: “A window seat,” he said, all in a rush. “For reading. And, um… maybe a loft. Or an attic? I’ve never had one of those.”
“Attic’s doable,” I said. “But if you want a reading nook, we need to steal some space from the main room. Here.” I sketched a bump-out, a little alcove just off the living room, and started shading it in.
He watched, fascinated, as the lines on the page became something real. His knee bumped mine under the table, and I didn’t move away.
“Can we have a porch?” he asked, barely more than a whisper. “Not a fake one, but a real, wraparound one. With rocking chairs?”
“Already in the plans,” I said, and shaded in a porch that snaked along the front and side of the house.
He grinned, wide and toothy. “You’re serious.”
I met his eyes, steady as I could. “Never been more.”
He touched the tattoo again, a nervous tic, then looked down at the sketchbook. “Can we… can we put the bedroom on the side facing the creek? I like the sound at night.”
I nodded, and drew a rough circle for the bed. “You want one bed, or two?”
He flushed so hard it went up to his hairline. “One,” he said. “Unless you snore. Then we’ll talk.”
I laughed, low and rough. “You’re stuck with me, either way.”
He leaned in, close enough that his breath fogged the page. “Okay. But only if we have a place for your tools. I know you—you’ll lose your mind if you can’t escape into a project.”
“Workshop in the back,” I said. “Soundproofed, so you don’t hear me swearing at the planer.”
He grinned wider. “Perfect.”
We spent the next hour sketching out the rest, passing the pencil back and forth, each of us adding little details: a brickfireplace, a line of bookshelves, a kitchen island big enough to prep food for an army. Our hands brushed a dozen times, and every time it happened I felt the heat bloom under my skin.
When we finished, the paper was a mess of erasures, arrows, and corrections, but the house—our house—stood proud in the center. Levi traced the outline with his finger, slow and careful, and I couldn’t help noticing the way his hand shook.
“You’re really doing this?” he said, eyes not leaving the page.
I nodded, once. “Already called Pa about the land. There’s a flat spot near the bend, just past the oak. Good drainage. No neighbors in shouting distance.”
He laughed, then wiped at his eyes, embarrassed. “You sure you’re not sick of me yet?”
I reached out, laid my hand over his, thumb brushing the inside of his wrist. “Never,” I said.
He smiled, small and fierce. Then he turned his hand over, palm up, and laced his fingers with mine.
For a long time, we just sat like that, the sketchpad between us, morning light pooling on the table. Every now and then, the wind outside caught the eaves and made the whole building creak, but inside it was all quiet.
I let my mind wander to the house, to the porch in summer and the fireplace in winter and the way the world would look with him at the center of it. Eventually, I said, “We’ll start clearing the site next week. Need to get the foundation poured before the first frost.”
He nodded, squeezing my hand. “You ever think about what comes after?”
I didn’t answer right away. I let the question hang, let it settle in the air. “Every day,” I finally said.
He smiled, and it felt like someone had thrown open every window in the room.
