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“I wasn’t hiding from you,” I say, then immediately hate how defensive it sounds. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly is usually where they find the bodies.”

“You’ve had a terrible influence on me.”

“Yes. Clearly. You’ve become evasive and dramatic.”

“I wanted to text,” I say. “A lot. Especially when I first got here. Then again every time an estate check cleared. Then when I bought this place. Then when Mom and I almost killed each other hanging that Puerto Vallarta painting. All the time, really.”

Paul looks at the painting, then back at me.

“But I kept thinking if I called you too soon, I’d be breaking the deal. I’d be showing up with half a plan and still living in my mom’s basement.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “I wanted something to show for the time.”

His face softens in a way that makes me almost angry. Softness is dangerous when I am trying this hard not to fall apart.

“You kept the promise,” he says.

I shake my head. “I was four days late.”

“You found your place.” His eyes move around the room again. “And a pizza oven, apparently.”

“Commercial grade.”

“Of course.”

The warmth in his voice does something stupid to my knees. He steps closer, then stops like he’s remembering he doesn’t have to rush.

“Show me.”

Downstairs smells like primer and new plastic, and not at all like a kitchen.

Mom’s near the front door with her clipboard, phone stuck between ear and shoulder, and gesturing toward the tables that just arrived. The person on the other end must be terrified.

She glances over when Paul and I come down, and if she notices my mouth is red from kissing, she has the decency to save that observation for whatever file she keeps in her head labeled Things Clint Thinks I Don’t Notice.

Her eyes move to Paul. She studies him, then goes back to her conversation.

“You understand, sir, that these are for picnics. I need tables fit for dining.”

I grab Paul’s hand and pull him through to the kitchen before Mom can scare him by proxy.

The kitchen is still half-finished, but to me, it already looks like the inside of my own head.

Prep tables along one wall. Flour bins stacked under them. The old brick cleaned up behind where the ovens sit, one deck oven already installed and the second still wrapped and waiting. The floor is sealed concrete now, not the sad old tile that looked like it had given up two decades ago.

Paul stops just inside.

“I can’t believe it. You’re making this place useful.”

“I hope it’s not weird,” I say. “Me taking it over.”

“Not weird. Just… the old me never could figure it out.” His eyes move around the kitchen again, then land back on me. “You did.”

“What would the new you do with it?”

Paul huffs a laugh. “Nothing. I think it wants to be a pizza place.”

I smile, my cheeks flushing.