“Agreed. Unless it’s Bodean’s. His is technically a crime against nature.”
Levi laughed so hard he snorted, then dropped his head to the table, forehead thumping the wood. “God, you’re gonna kill me,” he groaned, but I could tell he liked it.
We mapped out the main living area: open concept, stone fireplace in the center, built-in shelves lining every wall. Levi insisted on a window seat for reading, and I gave him a look, but drew it in anyway.
Then we debated tile colors for the kitchen and whether or not we needed a walk-in closet, since most of Levi’s wardrobe consisted of jeans and “stolen” McKenzie t-shirts.
For every suggestion, there was a negotiation: how many outlets in the studio, whether the bedroom needed blackout shades, if the porch swing should face the creek or the orchard.
I found myself giving in more than I expected, and every time I did, it felt less like a concession and more like an answer to a question I hadn’t realized I was asking.
We didn’t say much for a while. The sounds of the farm drifted in through the open window—horses in the paddock, someone cussing at a truck that wouldn’t start, the distant rumble of thunder from a storm brewing upriver.
I watched Levi study the drawing, his eyes flicking back and forth, searching for something invisible. The afternoon light caught on the tattoo at his wrist, and for a split second I wanted to frame his hand, pin it to the wall, just so I could look at it whenever I wanted.
He must’ve felt the weight of my gaze, because he glanced up. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
I rolled the pencil between my fingers. “How you looked when you asked for the window seat. Like you thought it was too much.”
He ducked his head, grinning. “I mean, it’s kind of a luxury item.”
“Not for you.” I nudged his knee with mine. “You get what you want. That’s the deal.”
He shook his head. “You keep saying that, but I don’t believe it.”
I leaned in, so close I could count the tiny scars on his cheek, the sunbleached tips of his eyelashes. “You will.”
He stared at me, and I could see the moment it landed—how real this was, how much I meant it.
He swallowed, then said, “Okay. But only if we put a lock on your workshop door. I don’t want you sneaking out in the middle of the night to build stuff and leaving me alone.”
I smiled, the kind of smile that felt dangerous because it was so easy. “Deal.”
For a while, we just sat like that—plans between us, bodies close, nothing left to say. The sun slid lower in the sky, and the only sound was the lazy tick of the wall clock and the scratch of pencil as we made tiny, last-minute edits. Neither of us wanted to let go, so we didn’t.
When we finally finished, Levi leaned his head on my shoulder, letting out a sigh that sounded like relief. I wrapped an arm around him, holding him steady, feeling the warm weight of him against my side.
The blueprint wasn’t perfect. But it was ours.
And for the first time in my life, I couldn’t wait to start building.
We spent the next day in a blur of details. Levi worked on a charcoal sketch of the front elevation—his lines messier than mine, but the emotion in it knocked me sideways. I used my T-square and a ruler to box out the actual dimensions, labeling everything in neat block letters.
The kitchen got a central island, wide enough to eat at and with room for a prep sink. I penciled in cabinets all the way to the ceiling, the kind with soft-close hinges and pull-out drawers that wouldn’t jam up after two years.
Behind the kitchen, a walk-in pantry with floor-to-ceiling shelves, “For the preserves,” I wrote, then grinned when I heard Levi laugh from across the table.
The master bedroom was nothing fancy—a rectangle with good windows and space for a king-sized bed—but I made sureto angle it so the first light of morning would come through at just the right angle. The en-suite bath got Levi’s tub, big enough for two, and a shower with a bench in case I ever busted my knees again. Down the hall, a guest room with a fold-out couch, but Levi already called dibs on it for reading days or when he “needed a break from my snoring.”
The wraparound porch was my favorite. I designed it so the widest part faced the creek, with built-in benches and room for at least three rocking chairs. I wanted to be able to sit out there in the dark, watch the water run, and listen to Levi read to me from whatever library book he’d stolen from the main house. I wrote “future swing” in the corner of the plan, and didn’t cross it out even when Levi told me swings were for kids.
When the sun started to set, I spread the final draft on the kitchen table and called Levi over. He padded across the floor, bare feet silent, and leaned over my shoulder to look.
He traced the plan with one finger, following the walls and hallways, pausing at the art studio like he still couldn’t believe it. “You really thought about all this,” he said, voice raw.
