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“I’ll handle the heavy stuff,” Jacob volunteers, sizing up the bed frame. “But you’re buying more beer.”

We work through the afternoon, clearing the room, hauling furniture to the basement, patching up the walls. The physical labor feels good, channeling my energy into something real, trying to outrun the million ways this could go wrong. By five, the room is bare, the walls patched and sanded smooth. Jacob sprawls on the hallway floor, sweaty and exhausted, while Elijah carefully lines the edges with painter’s tape.

“I’ve got to train soon,” I tell them, checking my phone. Trixie finishes her shift at seven. “Can you guys handle the painting?”

Jacob groans. “You’re leaving us with the boring part?”

“You get free room and board for the weekend,” I remind him. “And more beer.”

“Fine, fine,” he waves me off. “Go play celebrity.”

I head to the bathroom for a quick shower. As I’m dressing, my phone buzzes with a text from Trixie. Tonight? Your place or mine?

My fingers hover over the screen. Mine, I type back. Whenever you’re ready.

Her response is quick: See you at eight. I’ll bring dinner.

I read it twice, then pocket the phone. The gym can wait. Eight o’clock. Three hours to make this place perfect.

I sand the patches when they’re dry. Dust coats my arms, shirt, and neck. I keep moving.

The paint goes on in two coats, a soft blue-gray Elijah found in the garage. The moment it hits the wall, catching the late afternoon light, I know it’s the right color. Warm and cool, just like her.

Jacob steps back, tilting his head. “Not bad.”

“It’s good,” Elijah says simply.

I check my phone. Six forty-seven.

“I need you both gone by seven thirty,” I say.

Jacob groans. “We haven’t eaten.”

“There’s food in the fridge. Take it.” I’m already moving toward the bathroom to shower. “And don’t touch anything in the living room. She’s bringing dinner.”

“Ooh, she’s bringing dinner,” Jacob teases. “It’s serious.”

I shut the bathroom door on whatever comes next.

The shower is hot and quick. I stand under the spray, let the paint and sawdust wash away, let the tension in my shoulders ease under the pressure. The room is ready. The house is as clean as it’s going to get. I’ve done all I can.

What I can’t control is whether she’ll say yes.

I dry off, pull on clean jeans and a dark shirt, run a hand through my damp hair. In the mirror, I look like a man who’s been working with his hands all afternoon and hasn’t slept enough in weeks. I look like a man running on fumes and a dangerous amount of hope.

I hope that’s enough.

Back downstairs, the twins are pulling on their jackets, Jacob with leftover pasta under one arm, Elijah already at the door. They’ve cleaned up after themselves—paint cans sealed and stacked, drop cloths folded, brushes drying in the sink.

“Room looks good,” Jacob says, pausing at the door. The smirk is there, but there’s something genuine underneath it. “She’s going to love it.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Definitely.” He claps me on the shoulder, hard, like he has since he was tall enough to reach. “Don’t blow it.”

“Thanks. Very helpful.”

Elijah pauses last, looking at me with those perceptive eyes that see more than they reveal. Then he nods, a nod that says more than words, and follows Jacob out into the night.