He pushed out a sigh, folding his arms across his chest.The fatigue etched in the lines around his eyes looked like it was weighing him down from the inside out. I glanced at his hands—strong, steady, but tight at the knuckles.
I wanted to say something. To do something that didn’t involve shuffling another stack of invoices or untangling the resort’s spaghetti knot of budget disasters. It felt wrong, watching him hollow out right in front of me, knowing how much pride he took in never letting the seams show.
I thought about Finn, about how I’d learned to sense his meltdowns half a mile before they happened, the subtle warning signs in his posture or voice. Chase, on the other hand, had armor honed from years of never letting anyone in deeper than surface-level warmth.
My phone vibrated—a low buzz against the pile of folders. I ignored it. Instead, I reached for the French press someone had abandoned and refilled Chase’s mug and my own with the dregs. The brew was tepid and harsh on the tongue. Still, it filled the silence.
“I haven’t seen you eat today,” I tried, sliding the mug within reach of his elbow. “If you don’t start taking care of yourself, the termites are going to win by default.”
That got a ghost of a smile from him, gone before I could take hope in it. My reward was three solid seconds of him almost relaxing, his eyes slipping closed as the caffeine hit.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
Small victories.
I let the silence stretch, not wanting to scare him off. He’d talk when he was ready. Or maybe he wouldn’t, and I’d have to go first. Again. Eventually, the tension pressed too hard on my chest. I shifted, leaning forward, voice softer.
“Chase, I know things are wild right now, but are you okay?” I gestured to his wrinkled clothes—the same oneshe had on yesterday. “You look like you haven’t slept. Can I get you anything?”
He raked a hand through his hair. His face was frustrated, harried, maybe even a little panicked. For the briefest second, his eyes met mine, that complicated hazel laced with gold, before flicking away toward the structural report. “I’m fine, Harper. Just…” He stopped, collecting himself. “Just focused on solving this before the entire block collapses.”
I tried again, gentler this time, reaching for the spot between us that was supposed to be safe. “You don’t have to handle all this pressure alone, you know. I’m here. You can lean on me.”
His mouth flattened, expression shifting to something tight and closed. There was a flash of pain—almost, then gone—before he leaned back in his chair. “I appreciate that. You’re always such a rock. I should take lessons from you. You’re right, and we’ll get together soon, okay? Please, Harper. Right now, I need to focus on fixing this. I will find a solution. Just give me some time.”
I tried to nod like it was fine, like that didn’t hurt, but my throat threatened mutiny. The part of me that knew how to book entertainment and soothe tantrums insisted I push again, press past his walls. The woman in me—the one who remembered how to want and ache and hope—wanted to take his face in my hands and make him look at me, make him see how hard I was trying.
His phone rang, jarring in the overworked quiet. He snatched it up, glancing at the screen. His face tightened a notch further. “Yeah, Marcus? What’s going on?” The minute he heard the reply, his whole bearing changed—crisp, focused, that professional confidence kicking back in. “Okay, I’m on my way.”
He clicked the phone off, standing so fast his chairrolled back. He gathered a handful of papers, grabbing his keys and the plan tube he’d brought in two hours ago. “Sorry, I need to run. Another fire to put out on a different job. We’ll sync up later.” His hand brushed mine as he walked by, a light tangling of fingers that was all he could give.
It was deliberate, a gesture that he understood what still lay between us.
A gesture that he was doing the best he could.
For a moment, I stayed where I was, staring at the crater left by his absence. The crisis hadn’t changed—the money was still short, the beams still gnawed, the future still sharp-edged and uncertain. But the thing I feared most wasn’t the collapse of a wall or a building. It was this, the way he could withdraw so completely, the way he made me feel like my support was something he couldn’t afford.
He chose to carry all of it alone. The structural load and the emotional one. He chose not to trust me with the weight, even though I’d all but begged him to let me help shoulder it. And wasn’t that what I’d told myself I wanted? Partnership. Someone who could meet me in the hard places and say,Let’s do this together.
I looked down at the mug I’d brought him. Still three-quarters full, cooling fast. Was this what it would be, loving a man who turned inward when things got tough? Because I couldn’t even lie to myself anymore.
I was in love with Chase Ashworth, and there was no going back.
The door clicked shut behind him, and with that simple hush of wood against frame, every last scrap of composure I’d been clinging to evaporated. I stood in the center of the mess and waited for the next breath to feel less impossible.
It didn’t.
The relief of no eyes on me was almost as sharp as the ache in my throat. I pressed my palms to my eyes, felt the hot, gritty pressure building, my nose stinging in that prelude-to-ugly-cry way I hadn’t allowed in years, never at work, not with anyone but Finn safely asleep in the next room.
The conference table was cold and unyielding under my hands as I braced myself, sucking in one useless breath, then another. My vision blurred. I sagged into the nearest chair, folded forward, elbows on knees, and let my face fall into my hands. A sob slipped out, ugly and relieved and raw. The sound didn’t bounce off these walls the way laughter did. It seemed to sink straight into the carpet, private as a wound.
I sat there and let it go—frustration at the resort’s fragility, anger at Chase for shutting me out, the old, stubborn pain that whispered maybe I was always destined to carry things alone. Somewhere between breaths, I wiped my nose on the inside of my wrist, suddenly aware of a sticky ring of dried coffee on the table beside my elbow. I focused on that, weirdly grateful for its existence, a reminder that I was still in the realm of the physical, the solvable. If only the human heart wiped clean as easily as old coffee.
The door opened with the soft creak of hinges, and I didn’t even have time to hide the evidence before Eli slipped in. No sunglasses, no bright-lipped joke ready, just his own tired shadow painted by the door. He paused to take in the carnage—documents, plans, Harper-shaped misery.
“Hey.” The word was small. Genuine.
I sniffed, straightened as best I could, and swiped under both eyes, trying to reassemble my manager face. “Hi. It’s just… stress. The termite beam situation…” My voice warbled and collapsed. I was mortified and too wrung out to fake it.
