And honestly? For all his flaws… Troy Hawkins might belessof a headache.
“This is worse than I remembered,”I say, frowning at the crumbling concrete cube of sadness in front of us.
Troy lets out a low whistle beside me. “Yeah. It’s giving... post-apocalyptic prison chic.”
He’s not wrong.
Graffiti covers every surface. The door to the men's side is hanging off one hinge like it tried to escape. And someone has absolutely desecrated one of the toilets—I'm talking full roll of toilet paper shoved in, like a tiny mummy made its final stand.
I mutter something vaguely horrified and pull out my phone to take photos. Evidence. Proof that this place deserves to be bulldozed and possibly exorcised.
Meanwhile, Troy’s just standing there, all annoyingly tall and golden and grinning, like this is some kind of fun team-building exercise and not the kickoff to the most important project of my academic career.
I need to focus.
Measuring tape in hand, I start circling the perimeter, noting dimensions, angles, general vibes of despair.
“It’s around five hundred square feet,” I call. “Could extend south if we had to.”
He hums. I don’t know why it bugs me that he doesn’t argue. I expected pushback. A joke. Something. But he just nods, eyes scanning the area like he’s actually paying attention.
Weird.
“This spot’s got decent sunlight,” he says, pointing. “Andit’s in the middle of two main buildings—see how people keep cutting through?”
I glance over. He’s right. It’s basically a foot-traffic highway. I hate that I didn’t clock it before he did.
“Good call,” I mumble.
“Thanks, Greer,” he says with mock sincerity. “Your validation means everything to me.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m already sketching an idea in my head. “What about a covered structure? Something modular. A study space that opens up in summer, closes off in winter.”
He lights up like I just offered him front row seats to the Super Bowl. “Add solar panels. A rainwater collection system. Charging ports.”
“Green wall on the north side,” I say, almost without thinking.
His grin widens. “Oh my god. Are we agreeing on something? Mark the date.”
I shake my head, biting back a smile. I hate how easy this is. How natural. I do not like working with other people. And I especially don’t like that this person is actually... helpful.
We keep going—measuring, timing foot traffic, identifying utilities. He doesn’t complain once. Doesn’t make a single dumb joke about toilets. He’s quiet. Focused. Hands dirty from checking utility lines like he’s not above crawling through the dirt.
And for a moment, I forget I don’t trust him.
Then I catch him watching me.
“What?” I ask, sharper than I mean to.
He blinks. “Nothing. Just... you’re really in your element.”
I frown. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
“Maybe,” he says, casually. “You look intense. In a good way.”
I ignore the tiny flutter in my chest and write something down just to look busy.
It’s almost an hour before we’re finished. The sun’s getting lower. My boots are muddy. My nose is cold. But I’m happy with what we’ve got.
