The sun hadn’t even come up yet, and I checked Miles’s door. The kid was still passed out. Good. Dragging my hand through my hair, I waded down the hall toward the living room.
Daniel stood, moving piles of clothes from the couch to a fold-up table. He frowned at something on his phone, but then his attention turned to me.
“You’re up,” he said when he noticed me, pulling one earcup aside. “Good. I wanted to ask permission before I moved furniture.”
“Seems like you didn’t wait.” I sipped my coffee and jutted my chin toward the window. “Are those my tables?”
“Nope. I brought those.” Daniel frowned again, pointing at the couch. “Do you want me to move all this? I can set up atemporary closet in the corner. Yeah, I should do that. I don’t want to mess with your space. I’m sorry, Noah Abbott.”
“Okay, bro, do not full name me.” I shook my head. “You can do whatever you want in here. How does this work, anyway?”
Daniel leaned a hip against the folding table and finally looked up from his phone, eyes bright with that familiar mix of focus and excitement. He talked fast when he was like this, ideas tripping over each other, but a structure was underneath it. I could hear it in the way he explained things, like he’d already built the whole system in his head and was waiting for someone to ask. I made a note to ask Em what she thought about Daniel joining her on this venture. He clearly loved it.
“So basically,” he said, gesturing to the piles, “orders come in with specs. Team, player, size, embellishments. Em designs the final layout digitally first—mockups, color matching, placement. Then she builds the piece by hand. Base garment first, then layers. Patches, stones, stitching, whatever the order calls for. She’s not slapping logos on stuff. Every piece is custom.”
I nodded slowly, taking it in. “That sounds… intense.”
“It is,” Daniel said, grinning. “That’s why people are paying what they’re paying. It’s not mass-produced. It’s personal. People want something that feels like it was made for them.”
That tracked. It tracked perfectly, actually, because that was Em to her core. She’d always cared more about meaning than volume, about the details most people skipped over. I was about to ask another question when movement caught my eye down the hall.
Em walked in like she always did, unannounced and completely herself. She wore black leggings and a cut-off Rampage shirt that showed a strip of skin at her waist when she stretched her arms overhead. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, glasses perched on her nose, face still soft from sleep. Shelooked comfortable and alive and so damn beautiful, seeing her like that made my chest ache.
“Morning,” she said, voice a little raspy as she smiled at us. “You’re both up early.”
Daniel snorted. “Define early. I haven’t slept.”
I swallowed and forced myself to keep my hands to myself, even though every instinct in my body wanted to pull her close. Instead, I leaned back against the counter and watched her move through the space. She already scanned the setup with a critical eye.
“This looks good,” she said, stepping closer to the tables. “We’ll need a trash bin near the window and another by the door. Threads and backing pile up fast.”
“I can grab one,” I said immediately. “Two, actually.”
She glanced over at me, smile softening. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” I said and meant it in every possible way.
She nodded, accepting the help without fuss, and turned back to Daniel. The two of them fell into an easy rhythm, talking materials and timelines like they’d done this a hundred times already. I watched the way Em explained things, how she pointed and demonstrated with her hands, confident and sure. This wasn’t a hobby. This was her element.
I set up the trash bins where she’d suggested, then started clearing counter space without being asked. It felt good to be useful, to support without hovering. Every once in a while, Em would glance my way, our eyes meeting briefly, a quiet current passing between us. No touching. No words. Just awareness.
“I should wake Miles and get him to school,” I said after a bit, checking the time. “I can swing by and grab burritos on the way back. Fuel for the factory.”
Daniel lit up. “Say less. I’ll take carne asada.”
Em laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
“Hungry,” Daniel corrected. “And helpful.”
I grabbed my keys and headed toward the hall, pausing long enough to look back at Em. She was bent over a table now, measuring something carefully, completely absorbed. My chest swelled with pride.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as I reached Miles’s bedroom.
Coach Booth: Call me asap.
27
EM
