I loosen my grip slowly and lift my right hand away from the injured one, bracing myself. My pinky is already swollen and turning a nasty shade of purple.
“I don’t know, man. I was finishing the closet—installed all the shelves, everything—and I guess I slammed the door shut with my finger still in the damn way.”
Austin steps closer, inspecting it. “Dude… that doesn’t look good. You need to get that checked out. Could be fractured.” I stare at my finger and then I can feel my heart pounding on my finger. Austin whistles low under his breath. “Yeah, that looks like it hurts like hell.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I mutter, flexing my hand carefully. “It’s probably just bruised.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. That’s one of the reasons I’ve always appreciated Austin, he knows when to push and when to shut up. He’s been one of my best friends since we were kids, along with Noah. The three of us have been tight since elementary school, back when our biggest worries were homework and who got picked first for kickball.
Now we’re grown-ass men, still sticking together, just with more responsibilities, bad backs, and a lot more bills.
Austin crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “You know, if you’d stop working like a maniac, you probably wouldn’t be smashing your fingers.”
“I don’t have time to slow down,” I say, biting back another curse as a wave of pain rolls through my hand. “This is the last weekend I have to finish this damn place. I’ve been working seven days a week for months—job sites during the week, this place on weekends.”
Austin doesn’t say anything right away, just watches me with that quiet way of his. Always observing. Always calculating. That’s probably what makes him such a good architect, he sees shit most people overlook.
He’s the one who drew the plans for this house. My dream house.
I bought this plot of land a year ago, and from the minute I laid eyes on it, I knew exactly what I wanted to build. A modern craftsman with clean lines, big windows, and room to breathe. Something solid. Something mine. I’ve poured every spare second I’ve had into this place, and my friends—God bless them—have shown up every time I’ve asked. Sometimes without me even having to ask.
Noah’s driving in now, bringing food from his fiancée’s coffee shop. Said something about sandwiches and iced lattes. The man knows how to bribe us.
Between the three of us, and a few of the guys from our crew, we’ve been busting our asses to get this place done. And now, it’s finally happening. One last push.
I walk over to the window and look out at the front yard where there’s still a few tools scattered around, and the porchneeds a final coat of paint, but it’smine. Every nail, every beam, every brushstroke—I’ve earned this.
“This place looks damn good,” Austin says, coming to stand beside me. “You should be proud of yourself.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat that I didn’t see coming. “I am.”
“You know,” he adds, smirking, “most people would’ve just hired a crew to do it all.”
“Yeah, well… most people don’t have control issues and a need to prove themselves,” I joke, and he laughs.
“True,” he says. “But seriously, Esteban, once this is done, take a damn break. You’ve earned one.”
I nod again, more to myself than to him.
Austin nudges me with his elbow. “Look who finally decided to show up.”
I follow his gaze out the window and chuckle when I spot Noah pulling up in his truck. He parks a little crooked, hops out, and immediately starts struggling with a brown paper bag that’s way too full. There’s another balanced precariously in the crook of his arm, and two drink carriers stacked on top of each other that look one wrong move away from disaster.
“Look at that,” I say, grinning. “Man’s out here risking his life for coffee and sandwiches. Someone give him a medal.”
Austin laughs, and I keep going. “You’d think with all that baby rocking he’s been doing lately, he’d have better balance.”
“Come on,” Austin says, already heading for the door. “Let’s go save his ass before he drops the iced coffee. That would be a crime.”
We jog down the stairs, and I push the front door open just in time to catch one of the drink trays slipping.
“Whoa, whoa, easy there. You’re not delivering a baby, you’re delivering lunch,” I say, grabbing the tray before it crashes to the ground.
Noah blows out a breath. “You’re hilarious.”
“I know,” I smirk, taking one of the bags from his arms. “And incredibly helpful. You’re welcome.”
“Appreciate it,” he says, shifting the weight of the other bag. “Josy made extra. Said you guys would be starving.”
