“It will work,” I said, trying to ignore the twist in my stomach. “Plus, it’s the only way I’ll stay with you. I can’t just do that for free.”
“Em, of course you can.” His frown returned, softer now. “Let’s finish up here, then we can hash it out properly.”
“I mean, it’s settled already, buddy.” I winked at him. For the first time since the flood, I felt lighter. Almost normal. Then I stared at my bedroom. Or what was left of my bedroom.
“Uncle Noah, can I have a snack? I’m hungry.”
“Sure bud.” Noah pulled out crackers and led Miles to a chair in direct view of my bedroom.
Reality hit a breath later. My place was gone—most of my fabrics, pattern weights, my binder of sketches. I had the three bags Noah had grabbed and my hard drive, but that was it. I swallowed hard, eyes roaming over the stripped apartment asmy gut twisted. The window nook was where I’d planned collections, imagined a brand with my name on it.
I crouched to open one of the duffels, half checking, half taking stock. “I’ll need to reorder muslin and interfacing. My rotary blades are rusted from the water, so I’ll need new ones. And my tech pack binder’s toast, so I’ll reprint all the Rampage files. I have the digital copies on my drive, thank God.” I was mostly talking to myself now, running through the checklist in my head. “And the samples for next week’s fitting—shit. I’ll have to find a workspace. The team uses the practice facility’s meeting room sometimes, right?”
Noah stayed quiet behind me, the sound of his boots shifting closer.
“Whatever you need, I can get for you,” he said, voice low.
His words landed close. Too close. The warmth in them pushed against the exhaustion I was barely holding together. I wanted to lean back and let him take over for once. But I couldn’t. Not with him. Not again. He saw me messy and stressed too many times, and I was still raw at the fact he’d never called back in June. I knew his sister passed away and he had Miles, but he could’ve texted me. Told me. I’d learned about it from the news. The only explanation was I was too much of a mess to take on.
“I appreciate it,” I said carefully, zipping the duffel. “But I’ll be okay. I have enough saved to replace materials, and I can pick up a couple of freelance tech sketches to make up the difference.” I stood and brushed my hands on my thighs. “The licensing department approved an extended capsule if the first drop performs well, so I can build my portfolio out of this project too. I’m good.”
He studied me, still too close. “Good?”
“As good as someone whose entire studio turned into a swimming pool can be.” My tone came out sharper than Imeant. I sighed, softening it. “Look, I’m fine. This is just logistics now. Fabric orders, sourcing, and maybe a trip to the store. Not the end of the world.” I had to believe that or I’d break down.
“You lost your workspace,” he said. “That’s not nothing, Em.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll make one.” I forced a small smile. “You’ve got that guest room desk, right? I can turn it into a temporary cutting table. And I still have my tech pack software and tablet. As long as I can draw and measure, I can work.”
He looked unconvinced. “You don’t have to fix everything tonight.”
“I do,” I said before I could stop myself. The words came out quieter than I expected. “Because if I don’t start, I’ll start thinking about everything that’s gone. And then I’ll fall apart, and I don’t have time for that.”
Something in his expression changed—softer, but heavier somehow. He didn’t argue again.
“Fine,” he said, voice rough. “We’ll make sure you have a workspace tomorrow. You handle your designs; I’ll handle everything else.”
I shook my head. “Noah, you don’t have to?—”
He cut me off. “I’m doing it, Em. End of story.”
That familiar frustration rose in me—the one that always came when someone decided what I needed without asking. I crossed my arms, trying to hide the way my throat ached. “You know, everyone in my life thinks I can’t handle myself. My parents. My brother. Half my professors didn’t think so either. They saw ‘creative’ and immediately thought ‘irresponsible.’ I’m sick of proving I’m not.”
He stepped closer again, slowly, deliberately. “I’ve never thought that,” he said, his voice low and tight. Almost like he was angry at me for suggesting it. “Not once.”
The words hit harder than they should have. I looked away before he could see how much I needed to hear them. “Good,” Isaid, voice steady. “Then you’ll let me rebuild my work life my way.”
He smiled faintly. “You always did like getting the last word.”
“I’m right,” I said, but the tension between us felt different now—familiar, maybe even comfortable. Miles had wandered off into the kitchen area, rifling through the cupboards and making loud noises.
“Miles, come on, bud, knock it off. Could be unsafe.”
“Fine,” the kid whined, joining us.
Noah rubbed the back of his neck, eyes scanning the half-empty room as he tugged Miles toward his side in a half-hug. “Okay, so, tomorrow we go by your place, meet the mitigation team, grab what’s salvageable, and start building your workspace.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
