I rebuilt the house around her without letting myself believe I deserved to give it to her.
By early summer, the bungalow had become my favorite secret and my worst torment. I spent mornings there before job sites, evenings there after work, weekends there when Destiny was on shift. I stripped walls, replaced beams, rebuilt the porch, fought with permits, installed windows, sanded floors, and stood in the unfinished kitchen holding tile samples up to the light like a man trying to decode scripture. The crew knew better than to tease me too openly after Callum caught one prospect calling it “Destiny’s dollhouse” and made him haul debris for six hours.
Nate still teased me.
Of course he did.
“Brother,” he said one afternoon, standing in the doorway while I checked the quartz counters, “you are one throw pillow away from ovulating.”
“Get out.”
“Are you going to show her before or after you start monogramming towels?”
I pointed the tape measure at him. “I will staple you to the subfloor.”
“You flirt weird.”
Maybe I did.
Because every choice in that house was a confession.
The green tile she had chosen without knowing.
The quartz she said would clean easy after long shifts.
The deep sink.
The old floors I saved because she liked things with scars when they were still strong.
The bedroom with windows facing west, where sunset came in warm and gold.
The tiny strip of land out back where I planted rosemary, lavender, sage, and one doomed basil plant because hope made idiots of men.
By the time I brought her there, I had known for weeks that I loved the house for one reason only.
It felt like waiting for her.
I picked her up after a twelve-hour shift that had left shadows under her eyes and a stubborn crease between her brows. She climbed into my truck smelling like hospital soap, coffee, and exhaustion, wearing navy scrubs and Mandy’s diamonds.
“Please tell me this date involves food,” she said.
“It involves food.”
“And sitting?”
“Eventually.”
“Suspicious.”
“Always.”
She narrowed her eyes, but she trusted me enough to let me drive.
That still got to me.
Her trust.
After everything I had done wrong, every road I had taken away from her, every time I had called leaving love, she still got into my truck and rested her head back against the seat like she believed I would take her somewhere safe.
