Packed shelves, worn floors, and everything you might need—even if you don’t know what it’s called. Someone behind the counter always does.

It’s been there forever, and it feels like it.

Carries:
• tools
• paint
• hardware
• small fixes for everything

Feel:
functional, dependable, woven into daily life

Lucy hadn’t realized how loud a place like Bennett’s Hardware could feel until she was actually standing in it.

Not loud in volume—no music, no chatter layered over itself—but loud in texture. The scuff of boots across worn wood floors, the faint metallic clink when someone set something back on a shelf, the hum of old lights overhead that felt like they’d been there longer than she had.

It made her aware of herself in a different way.

Of how out of place she should’ve felt.

But didn’t.

Her fingers trailed absently along a row of small boxed nails as she moved down the aisle, the cardboard edges catching lightly against her skin, her attention split between the objects and the man somewhere just ahead of her.

Tools.

So many tools.

Individually shelved wrenches lined up by size, dull silver catching the overhead light. Screwdrivers set upright in open trays, no packaging, no fuss—just there for the taking like the store trusted you to know what you were doing.

Lucy didn’t.

Not even a little.

She paused, picking up a loose hex key between her fingers, turning it once like she might unlock some understanding just by holding it.

She didn’t.

Her mouth curved faintly before she set it back exactly where it had been.

“Okay,” she said, glancing over toward Cameron Tate, her voice light but threaded with genuine curiosity, “what were you here for again?”

The question wasn’t impatient.

Just… honest.

Her attention drifted back to the shelves as she walked a few more steps, fingertips brushing across rows of screws now—different sizes, different heads, all of it organized in a way that made sense to someone, just not her.

She stopped again, leaning slightly to peer at a bin of bolts like maybe the answer would reveal itself if she looked hard enough.

It didn’t.

A small huff of a laugh slipped out of her.

“This is fascinating in a very theoretical way,” she admitted, glancing back at him, her eyes soft with amusement. “Like I understand that this matters. I just… couldn’t tell you why.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the shelf before she pushed off it, continuing down the aisle toward the open section where the larger tools were set out.

No packaging. Just weight and shape and purpose.

Lucy reached out, lifting a wrench this time—heavier than she expected—and testing the balance of it in her hand before lowering it again.

Her gaze flicked to Cameron again, slower this time, more deliberate.

“And yet,” she added, her tone shifting just slightly, something playful threading into it, “I feel like you probably look very convincing in here.”

A small pause as she tilted her head, studying him like she was actually picturing it.

“Blue jeans,” she continued, tapping her finger once against the metal shelf, “boots… maybe a tool belt situation.”

Her mouth curved more fully now.

“Very on brand for you.”

She didn’t linger on that too long—didn’t let it turn into something bigger than the light tease it was meant to be.

Instead, she stepped a little closer, her shoulder brushing his arm briefly as she moved past him to the next section, her presence easy, familiar in a way that hadn’t existed a few weeks ago.

That part still caught her sometimes.

Not in a way that made her pull back.

Just enough to notice.

“Okay but seriously,” she said, turning slightly so she was half-facing him now, one hand resting lightly against the edge of the shelving, “what do you actually need from here?”

Her brows lifted just slightly, curious now in a more grounded way.

“Like what are you working on right now?”

The question landed softer than the earlier ones.

More interested.

Because she was.

Not about the tools.

About him.

Her thumb brushed idly along the shelf’s edge as she waited, her weight shifting to one hip, the movement subtle but relaxed—like she wasn’t trying to perform interest anymore, just letting it be what it was.

“And don’t simplify it for me,” she added, a hint of a smile returning. “I can handle a little construction talk.”

A beat.

“Probably.”

Her gaze held his, steady and open, and there was something quieter underneath it now—something that had been building over the past few weeks without either of them needing to name it out loud every time.

The late nights.

The drawn-out goodbyes.

The way things had deepened without rushing.

She pushed off the shelf slightly, stepping closer again without thinking too hard about it, her voice lowering just a fraction.

“I feel like I’ve mostly just seen the after-hours version of you lately,” she said. “Which—” her mouth curved faintly, “—not complaining.”

A small pause.

“But this is different.”

Her eyes flicked around the store once more before settling back on him.

“This is like… daytime, functional, knows-what-he’s-doing Cameron.”

Another beat.

“I’m curious.”

And this time, she didn’t hide it behind a joke.

She just let it sit there.

Easy. Open. Real.

Cameron had known, in some vague, distant way, that bringing Lucy Corbett into Bennett’s Hardware would do something to him.

He just hadn’t expected it to be this.

Not the obvious part, either. Not the way she looked moving down the aisle with that careful, curious little tilt to her head, fingertips skimming boxes and bins like every object deserved a moment of consideration before she decided whether or not it belonged in her universe. That part would’ve gotten him anywhere.

It was the rest of it.

The way she didn’t pretend to understand what she didn’t. The way she picked up a hex key like it might explain itself if she gave it enough attention, then set it back with that faint little curve of her mouth when it failed to become meaningful through sheer force of Lucy Corbett observation.

The way she looked at his world and didn’t make it smaller.

That was the thing that snuck under his ribs.

Cameron stood a few feet down the aisle with one hand braced loosely on the handle of a basket, watching her examine a row of fasteners like she’d stumbled into some strange little museum exhibit dedicated to practical men with bad handwriting on project invoices.

He should have answered her first question immediately.

Instead, he got caught for half a second on the fact that she was here at all.

In the middle of Bennett’s, under the old fluorescent lights, surrounded by boxes of nails and bins of bolts and the smell of sawdust, rubber, and machine oil, Lucy looked both wildly out of place and exactly right. Not because she belonged to hardware stores. She didn’t. Not in the obvious way.

Because she looked at everything like she was willing to learn its language.

That did something to him.

Then she started picturing him in jeans and boots and a tool belt, and Cameron had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his face from giving too much away.

It didn’t work completely.

His mouth pulled at one corner before he could stop it.

“Tool belt situation?” he echoed, low and amused. “That’s very professional terminology.”

He shifted his weight, leaning one shoulder lightly toward the shelf beside him as he looked at her. The basket bumped once against his leg.

“And for the record, I do own a tool belt. Several. None of them are situations. They’re equipment.”

The correction came with the kind of mock seriousness that didn’t even try to hide the smile underneath it.

But the smile softened a second later, because then she brushed past him.

Just a shoulder. Barely anything.

Still, Cameron felt the contact move through him like someone had dragged a match along the inside of his chest.

A few weeks ago, that kind of easy touch from her would’ve seemed impossible. Like something he’d have to earn in millimeters, if he ever got it at all. Now she did it without staging it, without retreating afterward, without making either of them explain why it mattered.

And somehow that made it matter more.

He looked down for a second, at the scuffed floorboards beneath his boots, and let himself smile before she turned back.

When she asked what he actually needed, and then asked what he was working on, the whole thing shifted.

Not in a heavy way.

Just real.

Interest sat in her face plainly now. Not polite, not performed. She wasn’t asking because she thought she should. She was asking because she wanted to know what his days looked like when he wasn’t in her apartment after closing, or at dinner, or half-asleep beside her in the quiet hours where everything felt softer than it had any right to.

Cameron felt that question land deeper than the words themselves.

He straightened a little.

Not showing off.

More like some part of him naturally answered being seen by becoming more fully himself.

“All right,” he said, setting the basket down on the lower shelf for a second. “You asked for it.”

His voice stayed warm, but something in it steadied—the easy competence of a man stepping back into work he knew with his hands before he ever had to explain it out loud.

“I’m here for three-inch exterior screws, a new countersink bit because mine walked off a job site and never came home, wood filler, and probably cedar shims if Bennett hasn’t moved them again to personally ruin my day.”

He glanced down the aisle, squinting toward the back like the old man who owned the place might’ve reorganized the store purely to test him.

“He says he doesn’t. I don’t believe him.”

Then Cameron looked back at her, and the amusement in his face gentled.

“We’re fixing a porch on a little house over on Alder. Front steps settled wrong years ago, and whoever patched it last time just kind of… convinced the problem to be quieter instead of actually fixing it.”

He reached past her—not over her, not crowding, just near enough that he could feel the warmth of her beside him—and pulled a small box of screws from the shelf. He turned it in his hand so she could see the label.

“These are for the new treads. Exterior-rated, coated, so they don’t rust out the second Tennessee weather starts acting personal.”

He set the box in the basket, then picked up another, shook his head, and put it back.

“That one’s too short.”

It came out automatically.

Then he paused, realizing maybe that was the kind of thing she’d actually asked him not to simplify.

So he turned the box slightly toward her again, holding it between them.

“If the screw’s too short,” he said, “it’ll grab the top board but won’t bite deep enough into the framing underneath. It’ll feel fine at first. Maybe even for a while. Then the wood swells, dries, shifts, and the whole thing starts working loose.”

He looked at her.

“That’s where squeaky steps come from. Or bouncy steps. Or steps that feel like they’re threatening to send your aunt into a hydrangea bush.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Which is frowned upon in professional circles.”

He liked watching her listen.

That was going to become a problem, he could already tell.

She didn’t just stand there waiting for the part where she could make a joke. She actually followed him. Her eyes moved from the box to his hands, then back to the shelf, as if the strange wall of hardware had started to come into focus by degrees because he’d given her the key to one small piece of it.

Cameron reached for the countersink bits next, scanning the sizes.

“The bit’s for making the screw head sit flush instead of sticking up.” He held one up between two fingers, metal catching the light. “You drill the pilot hole, then this cuts a little bevel so the head tucks in clean.”

His thumb moved over the edge of the packaging.

“If you skip that, you either split the wood or end up with a screw head proud of the surface, and then somebody catches a shoe on it and suddenly your nice porch has a vendetta.”

He tossed the bit into the basket.

“Construction talk. As requested.”

The look he gave her after was slightly teasing, but not condescending. Never that.

If anything, he was having to work not to look too pleased that she wanted this from him.

That she wanted the daylight parts too.

The version of him with sawdust in his truck, receipts crumpled in the cupholder, a measuring tape clipped to his belt, hands that could find the right fastener without thinking too hard. The part of him that had spent years learning how things held together, how they failed, how to rebuild them without making a spectacle of the damage.

Her comment about after-hours Cameron came back to him then, slipping under his skin in a quieter way.

He set one hand on the edge of the shelf beside her, not boxing her in, but close enough that the space between them narrowed.

“Daytime functional Cameron,” he said, like he was testing the title out. “That sounds like a guy who pays taxes early and owns a label maker.”

A beat.

“I do one of those things.”

His mouth curved.

“I’m not telling you which.”

But the humor only carried him so far.

His gaze moved over her face—the open curiosity there, the way she’d stepped closer without seeming to think about it, the way she fit into this aisle now not because she knew what anything was, but because she was standing near him like she wanted to understand.

Cameron swallowed lightly, then let his voice drop a little.

“I like that you’re curious.”

There it was.

Simple enough. True enough.

He didn’t try to make it clever.

“I mean, I know this isn’t exactly your natural habitat.” His eyes flicked briefly to the bins and the loose tools and the fluorescent lights humming above them. “But I like you in here.”

That came out more honest than he’d planned.

Not too much. But enough.

So he tilted his head toward the next aisle before it could sit there long enough to make either of them overthink it.

“Come on. I need filler.”

He picked up the basket and started down the aisle, slowing just enough for her to fall in beside him. Bennett’s opened wider toward the back, where the smell of lumber was stronger and the shelves were taller. Long boards were stacked along one wall, their pale cut edges banded in bundles, and the old ceiling fans turned lazily overhead without doing much to move the warm afternoon air.

Cameron passed a display of sanding blocks, then stopped in front of the wood repair section. He scanned the shelves with the kind of focus that came naturally to him here, but he was still aware of her at his side with almost ridiculous precision.

Her shoulder near his arm. Her weight shifting. The faint sound of her breath when she looked up at the wall of products that all probably looked identical to anyone who didn’t live in this stuff.

He reached for one tub, then another.

“This is for the nail holes and small checks,” he said. “Not structural. Just finish work.”

He held the container out toward her, letting her take it if she wanted.

“You don’t use filler to fix a bad board. That’s how you get people lying to themselves. Bad board comes out. Filler’s for making the good work clean.”

He paused, then smiled faintly.

“That may be the most dad-sounding thing I’ve ever said.”

Daniel Tate had said some version of it to him a hundred times, probably. On job sites. In old houses. In the bed of a truck with sawdust stuck to everything and Gatorade sweating in the sun.

Bad board comes out. Don’t patch what needs replacing. Do it right the first time if you don’t want to do it twice.

Cameron hadn’t realized until lately how much of his father’s voice lived in his own when he was talking about work.

That could have made him self-conscious.

It didn’t, strangely.

Not with Lucy.

He glanced at her again.

“My dad’s got a whole philosophy about this stuff,” he said. “You ask him for one hinge and accidentally get a sermon on integrity.”

A small laugh moved through him, warm and familiar.

“But he’s usually right. Annoying habit of his.”

He placed the filler in the basket, then leaned back against the shelf for a second, letting the store move around them. An older man turned down the next aisle pushing a squeaky cart. Somewhere up front, Bennett’s register drawer opened and shut with an old metallic snap. The lights hummed. Dust floated faintly in a slice of afternoon coming through the front windows.

It was ordinary.

So ordinary.

And somehow having Lucy inside it made it feel like something else entirely.

Cameron looked at her for another beat.

“You know what’s funny?” he said.

His voice was lower now, quieter than the aisle required.

“I think I was more nervous bringing you in here than I was taking you to dinner.”

The admission surprised him a little once it was out.

His brows drew together faintly, like he was figuring it out as he said it.

“Dinner’s easy to make look good. Right place, good lighting, decent food. It helps.”

A small pause.

“This is just…” He glanced around, mouth quirking. “Screws and dust and Bennett glaring at people from behind the counter like they personally invented shoplifting.”

His eyes came back to her.

“But it’s also a lot of my life.”

That was the honest part.

Not dressed up. Not candlelit. Not date-night charming.

Just him.

And letting her see that felt more intimate than he’d expected.

He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck once, a little sheepish now but not retreating.

“So yeah,” he said. “I like you being curious.”

A beat.

“I like that you asked what I’m working on and actually wanted the answer.”

Then, because that sat a little too openly between them and he was still Cameron, still incapable of leaving sincerity entirely unprotected for too long, his mouth pulled into a slow grin.

“And I’m choosing to believe the tool belt comment was professional interest.”

He let that land.

Then his gaze dipped over her face, not too long, but enough to make the next line warm.

“Mostly.”

Before she could make him pay for that properly, he stepped sideways and nodded toward the end of the aisle.

“Now, since you’re handling construction talk so well, I’m gonna let you make an executive decision.”

He led her toward a small display of exterior stains and sample boards mounted against the back wall. Each little strip of wood had been brushed with a different tone—warm cedar, weathered oak, dark walnut, natural pine. In the fluorescent light, some looked too orange, some too gray, some too flat.

Cameron hooked the basket over one wrist and reached for two sample boards, holding them side by side.

“The porch is old pine,” he said. “House is white, green shutters, red brick steps. Owner wants it to look clean but not brand-new. Like it belongs there, but doesn’t look neglected.”

He held one sample a little higher, then the other.

“I’ve got an opinion,” he said. “But I want yours.”

That was true too.

Not because he didn’t know what he’d pick.

Because Lucy saw things differently. Because color and feeling and whether something belonged—those were her languages.

And he liked the idea of letting her into his.

His shoulder brushed hers lightly as he adjusted the boards, close enough now that he could smell the faint softness of her perfume under all the sawdust and metal.

“Tell me which one feels right,” he said.

Then, quieter, with a little smile tucked into the corner of his mouth:

“And don’t simplify it for me.”

Lucy caught the way he watched her before he even answered.

Not subtly, either.

She could feel it moving over her in little pauses—the extra second when she picked something up, the way his attention stayed fixed when she turned a hex key over in her hand like she might accidentally unlock its purpose through observation alone.

It made warmth creep up the back of her neck in a way she absolutely refused to acknowledge out loud.

Mostly because they were standing in Bennett’s Hardware beneath aggressively unromantic fluorescent lighting while somebody’s grandpa loudly argued about mulch near the front register.

And somehow Cameron still looked at her like this.

Like she was interesting inside his world.

That part kept getting her.

Lucy dragged her fingertips lightly over rows of loose screws sorted into shallow metal bins, listening to the soft metallic shift beneath her nails while he repeated tool belt situation back to her in that low amused voice.

Immediately, her mouth twitched.

There it is.

That stupid almost-smile he got when he was trying not to look too pleased with himself.

“Mm,” she murmured thoughtfully, glancing at him over her shoulder. “See, now you’re just making it sound expensive.”

Equipment.

God.

The basket bumped against his leg when he shifted, and Lucy’s eyes flicked down automatically before back up again. Jeans, work boots, sleeves pushed up slightly above his forearms.

It was deeply annoying how much better adulthood fit him than she wanted it to.

“And several?” she added, eyebrows lifting. “Wow. So we’re dealing with a collector.”

The teasing came easily now.

Not sharpened into armor the way it used to be with them years ago. Back then, half their flirting had hidden panic underneath it. Wrong timing. Different futures. The constant awareness that Cameron Tate had always been halfway pointed toward leaving town even before he actually did.

Now the teasing felt softer.

Less defensive.

Which honestly might’ve been more dangerous.

Then she brushed past him.

Barely contact.

Just her shoulder catching his as she moved toward the next section of shelves.

Still, she felt the tiny shift in him immediately afterward anyway.

Not physically.

Something quieter.

And because Lucy noticed everything, she caught the way he glanced down afterward like he needed a second with himself before continuing.

That did something strange to her stomach.

Not dramatic butterflies. Nothing that teenage.

Something lower.

Warmer.

The realization that he still reacted to her like this.

That after six years and a failed almost-life together and all the mess in between, she could still touch him accidentally and feel it change the air around him.

God.

Lucy reached for a little plastic box of anchors mostly so she had something to do with her hands when she turned back toward him again.

Then she asked what he actually needed.

And the second the conversation shifted into real answers instead of flirting, she felt him shift too.

Straighter posture.

Steadier voice.

Not performative confidence.

Competence.

That caught her immediately.

Because Cameron had always been good at things physical—baseball, movement, instinct, momentum—but this was different. This wasn’t talent. This was learned. Built. Repeated over years.

Her attention sharpened before she meant it to.

Exterior screws. Countersink bit. Cedar shims.

The words themselves barely mattered.

It was the way he said them.

Like somebody fully inside his own life.

Lucy leaned one hip lightly against the shelf while he talked, eyes following the movement of his hands automatically when he picked up the screw box and turned it toward her.

And embarrassingly enough—

she liked listening to him explain things.

Not because she suddenly cared deeply about exterior porch construction.

Because he clearly did.

That was the part sneaking under her skin.

Then he mentioned Bennett reorganizing things specifically to ruin his day, and a laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

“Oh, he absolutely does,” she said immediately. “That man wakes up every morning and chooses targeted inconvenience.”

Her grin widened slightly.

“He’s probably got a little surveillance room back there.”

The image arrived instantly in her head: old Bennett glaring at security monitors while relocating cedar shims purely for emotional sport.

Lucy could practically see Cameron growing up here suddenly—not abstractly, but specifically. Teenaged Cameron running errands for his dad. Mud on his boots. Stopping at the counter for screws. Arguing over lumber measurements.

The image settled unexpectedly softly somewhere inside her chest.

Then he started explaining the porch.

And Lucy stopped joking.

Not consciously.

Her body just quieted around the sound of him talking.

She watched him reach past her for the screws—not crowding, not trapping her space, just existing close enough that she caught the clean scent of soap and sawdust still lingering in his shirt from earlier.

The warmth of him slid briefly along her arm.

Her pulse gave one annoying little shift.

Then he explained why the shorter screws wouldn’t work.

And Lucy listened.

Actually listened.

Which maybe surprised her most of all.

Her eyes moved from the box to his face to the shelf again while he talked about swelling wood and loose framing and steps working themselves apart over time.

The details painted themselves together strangely easily once he explained them.

Like he knew how to translate practical things into consequences people could feel.

Hydrangea bush aunt included.

That line finally pulled a quiet laugh out of her.

“Wow,” she murmured. “High stakes industry.”

But underneath the joke, she kept watching him.

Because there was something incredibly attractive about the way he explained things thoroughly without trying to make her feel stupid for not already knowing them.

No condescension.

No ego.

Just patience.

And Lucy—

Lucy had spent enough time around men who mistook knowledge for superiority to know the difference immediately.

That realization sat with her while he moved toward the countersink bits.

She followed beside him slowly, fingers brushing absentmindedly along hanging packages while fluorescent lights hummed overhead and a ceiling fan squeaked lazily somewhere toward the back of the store.

Then he held up the countersink bit.

Pilot holes. Beveled edges. Porch vendettas.

Lucy folded her arms loosely across herself, but by then she’d stopped pretending she wasn’t watching him more than the tools.

“You know this is working against me, right?” she asked.

Her tone stayed dry, but warmth curled underneath it anyway.

“Like, I came in here fully prepared to be bored.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to the tape measure clipped against his belt.

Then back up again.

“And now you sound competent and helpful. Which is honestly rude.”

That earned its place.

Especially because it was true.

Then came daytime functional Cameron.

Lucy actually laughed softly at that, leaning back against the shelf for a second while her smile spread before she could stop it.

“Oh my god,” she said. “You absolutely own a label maker.”

Immediate certainty.

“No one says daytime functional that confidently without labeling storage bins.”

The image of him organizing hardware compartments somewhere in a garage should not have affected her.

It absolutely did.

Then his voice changed again.

Subtly.

I like that you’re curious.

The warmth in her face softened almost instantly at that.

Not because it was flirtatious.

Because it wasn’t.

It was honest.

And somehow honesty from Cameron had become more destabilizing than flirting lately.

Lucy looked down briefly at the shelf beside her, fingertips smoothing over a crooked price label while she absorbed it.

Because the stupid thing was—

she was curious.

About all of this.

About him now.

About the years she hadn’t seen up close. The habits he’d built. The life that existed outside the version of Cameron she remembered from being nineteen and furious and heartbroken.

Then he said he liked her here.

That one landed deeper.

Lucy glanced up at him slowly.

The fluorescent lighting flattened the whole aisle into dull colors and dusty shadows, but somehow he still looked at her like the place had changed shape because she walked into it.

That did not help her emotional stability whatsoever.

Her fingers slipped into the back pockets of her shorts instinctively, grounding herself while she held his gaze another second too long.

“I mean,” she said quietly, “you seem weirdly happy explaining screws to me.”

A tiny smile tugged at her mouth.

“So maybe this is your natural habitat.”

But she followed him immediately when he told her to come on.

Which maybe answered something all by itself.

The back section of Bennett’s smelled more strongly of cut lumber and dry wood dust, the air warmer beneath the lazy-moving ceiling fans overhead. Long boards lined one wall in towering stacks, pale raw edges catching the afternoon light cutting through the front windows.

Lucy walked close enough beside him that her shoulder occasionally brushed his arm when they slowed near displays.

Not accidental anymore.

Not exactly intentional either.

Just natural now in a way that still startled her if she thought about it too hard.

So she tried not to.

When he stopped in front of the filler section, Lucy tilted her head back to stare at the shelves lined with nearly identical tubs and containers.

To her, they looked interchangeable.

Then he started explaining them.

And once again, annoyingly, she found herself genuinely interested.

She took the container from his hand when he offered it, turning it over while he explained nail holes versus structural damage.

Then came the line about bad boards.

Lucy’s attention caught on that immediately.

Not because of the construction metaphor.

Because she heard the inherited voice inside it right away.

Father to son.

Repeated enough times to become instinct.

The realization softened something in her chest unexpectedly.

When he mentioned his dad giving sermons about integrity over hinges, Lucy smiled before she could stop herself.

“I can hear it,” she said softly.

Her eyes lifted back toward him.

“You do the same pause before explaining things.”

That realization hit her as she said it.

The same measured cadence. Same thoughtful way of building toward a point.

And weirdly—

she liked it.

Maybe because younger Cameron had always felt slightly untethered, all restless momentum and future plans and leaving town in the rearview mirror.

This version felt rooted somewhere.

That mattered more than she expected.

Then he admitted he’d been nervous bringing her here.

Lucy blinked.

Actually blinked at him.

Because that confession slid under her defenses so cleanly she didn’t even see it coming.

Dinner nervous, she understood.

Restaurants had armor built into them. Candles. Drinks. Dim lighting. Easy distractions.

But this?

This was fluorescent lights and sawdust and his actual life.

The realization moved through her slowly while he talked about screws and dust and Bennett glaring at customers.

And suddenly she understood exactly why it mattered to him.

This wasn’t date Cameron.

This was just Cameron.

Her gaze moved over him carefully then—the boots, the basket hanging from his wrist, the easy familiarity he carried through the aisles.

And something in her softened further before she could stop it.

Lucy stepped closer.

Only a little.

But enough.

“I like this better,” she admitted quietly.

The words surprised her slightly once they were out.

But they were true.

“Dinner was nice,” she said. “But this feels more…” She glanced around once. “Real.”

Her voice gentled around the last word.

Because it did.

And apparently she trusted him enough now to say things like that out loud.

Dangerous development.

Then he brought up the tool belt comment again.

Mostly.

Immediately, warmth rushed back into the moment before it could get too emotionally exposed.

Lucy’s grin widened despite herself.

“There he is,” she murmured softly. “Was wondering how long you were gonna stay respectable.”

But her eyes betrayed her anyway, dragging once down over the jeans, boots, broad shoulders beneath the worn t-shirt.

And honestly?

She wasn’t even gonna pretend anymore.

“For the record,” she added lower, stepping in close enough that her shoulder brushed his again when she looked at the stain samples, “the tool belt thing is still absolutely working for me.”

Cameron’s grin came before he could stop it.

Not the small one, either.

The real one.

The one that got him in trouble because it showed too much too fast and had absolutely no interest in pretending he was unaffected.

Because Lucy Corbett had just stepped closer to him in the back aisle of Bennett’s Hardware, under the worst lighting known to mankind, surrounded by stain samples and wood filler and the faint smell of dust baked into old floorboards, and told him—low enough that it felt like something meant for him alone—that the tool belt thing was working for her.

And suddenly, Cameron had a very hard time remembering what stain they were supposed to be discussing.

His gaze dropped for half a second.

Not far.

Just enough to catch the angle of her shoulder near his arm, the way she’d tucked herself into the space beside him without acting like it was a decision, the faint color still sitting high in her face even while she looked at the samples like she hadn’t just shifted the whole aisle two degrees warmer.

Then his eyes came back to hers.

Slowly.

“You know,” he said, voice low and amused, “that is very useful information.”

He turned one of the stain boards in his hand, like he was still participating in the professional task at hand.

Barely.

“I’m gonna have to be responsible with it.”

A beat.

“Probably.”

The corner of his mouth lifted again, and there was nothing respectable about it now. Not fully. He was still standing there with a basket hooked over his wrist, stain samples in his hand, doing his best impression of a man who remembered they were in public.

But only his best.

Which was not as good as it had been ten seconds ago.

Because she wasn’t looking away this time.

That was the part that got him most.

Not the flirt itself—though, God, yes, that had hit exactly where she’d intended it. It was the way she let herself mean it. The way she’d looked him over and didn’t immediately cover the trail with a joke sharp enough to pretend it hadn’t happened.

Lucy still teased. Still tilted her head. Still made him work a little.

But lately, more and more, she let the truth stay visible underneath.

And Cameron was pretty sure he was never going to get used to that.

He shifted the basket higher on his wrist and leaned one shoulder lightly toward the sample display, close enough that his arm brushed hers again when he moved. Not an accident this time either. Not exactly.

“Also,” he added, “I’d like the record to show that I stayed respectable for a long time, considering the circumstances.”

His eyes flicked briefly down the aisle toward the front of the store, where Bennett was still half-listening to some old man complain about mulch prices as if the fate of the republic depended on it.

“Hostile environment, honestly. Fluorescent lighting. Mulch argument. You standing here saying things like that.”

He looked back at her.

“I’m doing heroic work.”

The words came easy. Warm. Playful enough to keep the moment from getting too heavy, but his body knew better. His pulse had changed. His awareness had narrowed down to the inch of space between her shoulder and his, to the way she watched him like she liked seeing him here, in this part of his life, without the candlelight and the easy date-night cover.

That had hit him even harder than the tool belt line, if he was being honest.

I like this better.

Dinner had been good. Great, even. He still thought about the booth, the low light, her leaning in, the way she’d said certain things across that table that had stayed with him afterward.

But this?

This was different.

This was him standing in Bennett’s on a normal afternoon, buying screws and filler for a porch job, and somehow feeling more exposed than he had in a restaurant with a check on the table and her mouth still warm from kissing him.

Because she was right.

This was real.

Not polished. Not planned. Not designed to make him look better than he was.

Just his life.

And she had looked at it—sawdust, errands, old-man hardware-store politics and all—and said she liked it better.

Cameron let that sit inside him for a second, quieter than the grin he was still wearing.

Then he held the stain samples up again between them, partly because he genuinely wanted her opinion and partly because if he kept staring at her like that, he was going to forget they were standing in a public aisle with Bennett’s security mirror pointed vaguely in their direction.

“Okay,” he said, dragging himself back to the task with visible effort. “Before you derail a hard-working man any further, I need an answer.”

He lifted one board.

“This one’s warm cedar. Safe choice. Nice. Friendly. Makes people say things like charming curb appeal.”

Then the other.

“This one’s weathered oak. A little cooler. Looks older without looking tired. Less obvious.”

His gaze slid to her again, because he already had a suspicion which one she’d choose. Not because she was predictable. Because she had a way of choosing the thing with a little more story in it.

“House is white, green shutters, red brick steps,” he reminded her. “Porch gets morning sun, so anything too orange is gonna look like it’s yelling by noon.”

He angled the cedar sample under the fluorescent light and made a face.

“See? Aggressive.”

Then he held up the weathered oak again, closer to the light.

“This one behaves.”

He paused.

“Mostly.”

And there it was—the answer he already knew, even before she gave it. The second her attention settled on the cooler board, he felt that small, private satisfaction of watching her see what he’d seen.

Not because he needed to be right.

Because he liked that their instincts met there.

He liked that in this one tiny, ordinary place—a stain sample in the back of Bennett’s Hardware—they were looking at the same thing and understanding it in overlapping ways.

Cameron set the cedar back on the rack and kept the weathered oak in his hand.

“Yeah,” he said softly, before she even had to say much. “That’s what I thought too.”

His shoulder brushed hers again when he leaned forward to pull the matching can from the shelf below. He crouched slightly, scanning the labels, and for once he was deeply aware of the fact that he was, technically, doing exactly the kind of daytime functional thing she had just admitted worked on her.

Which meant he maybe took a second longer than necessary finding the right can.

Not because he was showing off.

Obviously.

He was simply being thorough.

He lifted it, checked the label, and stood again.

“This is the one,” he said, setting it in the basket. “Clean without looking new. It’ll sit right with the brick.”

He looked at her then, the confidence in his face easy and bright.

“Good call.”

A beat.

“Our call, technically.”

He let that one land just lightly enough not to make it too much, but not so lightly she could miss it either.

Then he reached past her for a small pack of stain brushes, and the movement brought him a little closer—close enough that his chest almost brushed her arm, close enough that he could see the faint catch in her expression when she registered the nearness.

Cameron paused there for half a breath.

Not trapping her. Not pushing.

Just letting the small space between them become noticeable.

His voice dropped a fraction.

“And since you’re apparently a fan of the whole construction aisle experience,” he said, “I should warn you, this is a slippery slope.”

His mouth curved.

“Next thing you know, you’re gonna have opinions about wood grain, and I’m gonna be standing in your shop holding three brackets while you tell me one of them has bad energy.”

The image pleased him immediately.

Too much.

Lucy in Honey Bee, looking at hardware like it had a personality. Cameron beside her with screws in his palm while she explained that some shelf support felt too heavy for the space and somehow made him understand exactly what she meant.

He wanted that.

That little overlap.

Her world bleeding into his. His into hers.

Not in a dramatic, sweeping way.

Just aisle by aisle. Room by room. Errand by errand.

That realization softened something in him.

He glanced down, tossed the brushes into the basket, then looked back at her with a quieter smile.

“You’re good at this, by the way.”

He nodded toward the samples, the shelves, the can of stain.

“Not the tool part.” A beat. “No offense. The hex key experiment wasn’t promising.”

His grin came back before she could object too hard.

“I mean the feeling part. What belongs. What doesn’t. You get that fast.”

He let the sincerity stay there, because she deserved it.

And because he was done acting like noticing her clearly was something he should ration out.

“I can tell you what’ll hold,” he said. “What won’t split. What needs to come out and get rebuilt.” His gaze held hers, softer now under all the teasing. “But you’ve got a better eye for whether something feels right once it’s done.”

That was true.

And not small.

He shifted the basket to his other hand, then nodded toward the far wall where a few larger tools hung above a low display table.

“I need one more thing.”

He started that way, slow enough that she could walk beside him, and this time when their arms brushed, Cameron didn’t even pretend not to notice.

He looked down at her with that same easy grin.

“If you’re gonna keep walking this close, I’m gonna start assuming you’re supervising.”

The aisle opened near the back, where the bigger tools sat in clean rows—levels, mallets, clamps, handsaws, pry bars. He reached for a small pry bar first, tested the weight, then put it back and grabbed another.

“This is for the old boards,” he explained. “Getting them up clean without chewing up everything around them.”

He held it out for her to see, metal dark and solid in his hand.

“Not glamorous. Very useful.”

His mouth tipped.

“Kind of like the futon, but I already know you’re not emotionally ready for that comparison.”

The joke came naturally, and the memory of her horror over the futon flashed across his mind so vividly he almost laughed before she even reacted.

He placed the pry bar in the basket before she could accuse him of crimes against domestic dignity and then leaned one hip against the display table.

For a second, he just let himself look at her again.

The store moved around them in its ordinary rhythm—cash register, squeaky cart, old floorboards, the faint slap of a screen door somewhere near the back receiving entrance. Dust caught in the light overhead. Someone laughed near the paint counter.

And Lucy stood there with him in all of it.

Not impatient. Not bored. Not waiting for the errand to end so they could get back to the romantic part.

This was the romantic part, apparently.

Which was a dangerous thing for him to realize in a hardware store.

Cameron’s voice came out a little lower when he spoke.

“You were right,” he said.

A beat.

“This does feel real.”

He didn’t elaborate immediately. Didn’t need to fill the sentence until it couldn’t breathe.

Then, because looking at her too long while saying things like that in front of a wall of clamps was going to make him start saying even more, he let the grin return.

“And that’s exactly why I’m gonna need you to stop being so charming around the exterior stain.”

His brows lifted.

“It’s confusing the work environment.”

He pushed off the display, basket in hand, and nodded toward the register.

“Come on. Let’s go pay before Bennett decides I’ve been loitering in my natural habitat too long.”

Then he paused, glancing down at her with a glint of mischief that hadn’t been there before.

“And after this,” he said, “I’m buying you coffee.”

A beat.

“Partly because you survived construction talk.”

His smile shifted slower.

“Mostly because I want another twenty minutes with you in daylight.”

There.

Not slick. Not polished. Just true, dressed lightly enough that she could meet it without flinching.

He started toward the front, but not before letting his fingers brush lightly against hers at his side—brief, warm, easy.

An invitation, not a demand.

And as Bennett’s old register came into view through the rows of shelves and the mulch argument finally died a natural death near the entrance, Cameron glanced back at her once, still smiling.

“Also,” he added, voice low enough that only she would hear, “if you’re this affected by the tool belt in theory…”

His mouth curved.

“Real thing might be a public safety issue.”

Lucy’s breath caught before she could smooth it out.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that she felt it herself when Cameron’s grin broke open like that in front of her—quick, bright, completely unguarded in a way that always seemed to hit her harder because she knew he didn’t hand that version of himself to everyone.

And God, the fluorescent lighting really was terrible.

It should’ve ruined the moment.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly above them, flat and unforgiving against the faded labels and dusty shelves, the whole aisle smelling like sawdust and old lumber and whatever ancient industrial cleaner Bennett used on the floors. Somewhere near the front, a cart wheel squealed in protest, followed by another rise in the mulch argument that had apparently become a town hall debate while they’d been standing back here pretending to compare stain samples normally.

But Cameron looked at her like the aisle was lit by candlelight anyway.

That was the problem.

Her eyes dropped for half a second when his did—not away from him entirely, just down enough to notice the basket hanging from his wrist, the flex of his hand around the sample board, the easy broadness of him in this environment like he belonged to it naturally. Like he could navigate this place blindfolded.

Then his arm brushed hers again.

Intentional this time.

Lucy felt the awareness of it move through her immediately, low and warm beneath her ribs, and she hated how visible she suddenly felt standing there beside him. Not because he’d done too much.

Because he hadn’t.

Because Cameron Tate had apparently figured out that the fastest way to completely unravel her was to lean close in a hardware store and talk to her like she already belonged in his ordinary life.

“You’re unbelievable,” she murmured, though the protest lacked any real force by the end of it.

Her mouth curved before she could stop it when he started talking about hostile work environments and heroic restraint. The image of him bravely enduring fluorescent lighting while flirting in front of paint supplies nearly broke her composure completely.

Especially because he sounded so sincere about it.

Lucy shook her head lightly, but she could already feel herself losing the fight against smiling.

“No, see, you don’t get points for struggling through conditions you created yourself,” she said. “You leaned into this. Aggressively.”

Her shoulder stayed against his for a beat longer than necessary after his arm brushed hers again, and she became painfully aware of that fact almost immediately afterward.

But she still didn’t move away.

That felt newer than the flirting itself.

Not the teasing—they’d always had that, even before everything shifted underneath it. The banter had existed long before either of them admitted what sat beneath it. But staying close after the teasing landed? Letting silence exist without rushing to cover it?

That part still felt startling every time it happened.

And apparently Cameron noticed it too.

She saw it in the way his attention sharpened when she kept looking at him instead of ducking away from the moment.

Which only made her warmer.

Dangerous cycle.

Lucy folded her arms loosely instead, more for self-preservation than defensiveness, though she immediately regretted it when it put a little more distance between them physically. Then he started talking about the stain samples again, visibly dragging himself back toward the actual reason they were here, and affection hit her so suddenly she almost laughed.

Because he really was trying.

Badly.

But trying.

Her gaze shifted to the boards when he held them up, and she listened seriously despite the fact that half her brain was still stuck on the phrase our call technically echoing somewhere in the middle of her chest.

White house. Green shutters. Red brick.

Morning sun.

Lucy angled slightly closer to look at the wood tones beneath the lights, instinctively leaning into his space without thinking much about it until she realized their shoulders touched again.

The cedar made her nose wrinkle immediately.

“Aggressive is generous,” she said. “That one looks like it thinks it invented autumn.”

His laugh warmed the space between them instantly, easy and familiar, and she felt the answering pull in herself before she even looked back up at him.

Then her attention settled fully on the weathered oak.

Cooler. Softer. Lived-in without looking worn out.

Her fingers brushed lightly over the edge of the sample when he held it closer.

“This one feels like it belongs there already,” she said quietly. “Like the porch aged into it naturally.”

And there it was again—that look he got sometimes when she landed on the same conclusion he’d already reached internally.

Not smug.

Something gentler than that.

Something that felt weirdly intimate for two people standing beside wood stain.

Lucy felt it too.

That strange little click when their instincts aligned without effort.

Not because they were the same.

Because they understood the same language underneath things.

The realization settled low and warm inside her just as he crouched to grab the matching can, and the second he moved, her attention betrayed her completely.

Which was mortifying.

Because he was literally just getting stain off a shelf.

And yet somehow the combination of his rolled sleeves, the focus in his expression, and the casual confidence of him moving through this space like he knew exactly what belonged where made her suddenly very aware of why she’d made the tool belt comment in the first place.

Worse, she had the distinct impression he knew it.

Especially when he took just a little too long checking the label.

Lucy bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to keep from smiling outright.

“Uh-huh,” she said lightly when he straightened again. “Very thorough. Extremely professional.”

But the warmth in her voice ruined the criticism entirely.

Then he said our call.

Again.

Smaller this time.

Softer.

And Lucy felt something in her chest pull tight in a way that had nothing to do with flirting anymore.

Because he kept doing that.

Sliding them into the same sentence like it was becoming instinctive.

Not forcing it.

Not making some giant declaration out of it.

Just naturally reaching for together.

Her eyes lifted to his automatically after that, and for one suspended second she forgot entirely that they were standing in public.

Then he reached past her.

Too close.

The movement brought the heat of him against the edge of her arm, his chest near enough that she could feel the shift of air with it, and Lucy’s pulse stumbled hard enough she hated herself for it a little.

Especially because Cameron paused there.

Not cornering her.

Not pressing.

Just letting her notice.

Which somehow felt infinitely worse.

Her expression betrayed her before she could lock it down completely, and judging by the slight drop in his voice afterward, he caught it.

Of course he did.

“You’re so smug right now,” she muttered, though it came out quieter than intended.

But then he started talking about brackets having bad energy and standing in Honey Bee while she reorganized shelves, and the entire image bloomed in her head so fast it almost startled her.

Cameron in her store.

Not visiting awkwardly.

Not stopping by briefly.

Existing there.

Holding things while she worked. Letting her ramble about displays and colors and whether a piece felt too heavy for a room. Taking up space naturally inside her world the same way she was starting to inside his.

The thought hit deeper than she expected.

Because suddenly she could see it.

Not fantasy.

Not performance.

Just ordinary overlap.

A life built accidentally through small repetitions.

Lucy looked at him differently after that without meaning to.

Softer.

And apparently he noticed that too.

Then he called her good at this.

The sincerity underneath the teasing landed immediately, and her first instinct—the old instinct—was to deflect before it settled too deep. But his gaze held steady on hers, open in a way that made dodging it feel almost unfair.

So instead she let herself absorb it.

His confidence in her.

The fact that he’d been paying attention closely enough to know how her brain worked.

The fact that he trusted her taste.

That mattered more than he probably realized.

Lucy’s smile shifted smaller at the edges, less teasing now.

“You notice more than people think you do,” she said softly.

The words slipped out before she overthought them.

True enough to make her pulse kick harder afterward.

Then he started walking again, and she moved beside him automatically, their arms brushing once more in the widening aisle.

This time neither of them pretended not to feel it.

His supervising comment pulled another laugh from her before she could stop it, quieter now but real.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said. “You seem like someone who needs monitoring around power tools.”

Her eyes flicked toward the pry bar in his hand while he explained the old boards, and despite herself, she found she genuinely liked listening to him talk about this stuff. Not because of the tools themselves.

Because of him.

The way his voice changed when he explained things he understood deeply. The casual competence underneath it. The ease.

Then he compared the pry bar to the futon.

Lucy stared at him in horror.

“Okay, first of all,” she said immediately, “the futon committed crimes against interior design.”

Her hand pressed lightly against his forearm before she realized she’d done it, instinctive emphasis attached to the accusation.

“And second, don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to emotionally manipulate me into respecting it.”

The contact lasted maybe two seconds.

Maybe less.

But the warmth of him beneath her palm registered instantly, and when she pulled her hand back, she could still feel it.

So could he, judging by the way his attention shifted for one tiny fractional beat afterward.

The store noise blurred softer around them after that.

Not gone.

Just farther away.

Lucy noticed the dust moving through the fluorescent light. The squeak of shoes somewhere near the register. The distant slam of a stockroom door. Cameron leaning against the display table looking at her like he’d forgotten they were in public again.

Then his voice lowered.

You were right.

The words settled carefully between them.

This does feel real.

Lucy’s chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.

Not because it scared her.

Because she knew exactly what he meant.

And because part of her had been afraid she was the only one feeling it.

Dinner had been romantic. Easy to categorize. Easy to place inside the safe structure of a date.

But this?

This was dangerous in a quieter way.

Errands. Hardware aisles. Coffee after. Shared opinions about stain colors and porch repairs and whether brackets had personalities.

The intimacy of ordinary things.

Lucy looked at him for a long second before answering.

“This is the part people actually build things out of,” she said quietly.

The words came softer than the teasing usually allowed.

Honest enough that she felt exposed immediately afterward.

But she didn’t take them back.

And neither of them looked away.

Then, mercifully, he ruined the intensity by accusing her of charming the exterior stain, and Lucy laughed hard enough that the tension finally cracked apart again.

“There he is,” she said. “I was getting worried you were about to become emotionally vulnerable in front of the clamps.”

His grin returned instantly, and relief mixed strangely with disappointment inside her at the shift back toward teasing.

Not because she wanted less of this version of him.

Because she wanted both.

The joking.

And the truth underneath it.

Apparently Cameron was learning how to give her both at once now.

Which felt unfairly effective.

She followed him toward the register, the basket swinging lightly from his hand, and when his fingers brushed hers at his side, Lucy’s entire body reacted before her brain could organize around it.

Warm.

Brief.

Easy.

But intentional enough that she felt the invitation in it immediately.

This time she answered without thinking too hard first.

Her fingers curled lightly against his for one passing second before slipping away again.

Not clinging.

Just meeting him there.

Then he glanced back at her with that look in his eyes and mentioned the real tool belt.

Lucy groaned instantly, heat rushing straight into her face.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, covering part of her face with one hand. “You’re never letting that go now.”

But her laughter gave her away completely.

As did the fact that she was still smiling when she looked back up at him again.

Cameron clocked the groan, the hand over her face, the heat climbing into her cheeks—

and immediately knew he was doomed.

Not because he was going to stop teasing her.

Obviously not.

Because the sight of Lucy trying to hide that smile in the middle of Bennett’s Hardware, after spending the last ten minutes pretending to be professionally interested in screws while giving herself away every time he leaned too close, hit him with the kind of fondness that made a man deeply untrustworthy with his own mouth.

His grin widened before he could help it.

“Let that go?” he said, turning slightly toward her with the basket still hanging from his wrist. “Luce, I’m a construction worker from Bedford Falls. You hand me a tool belt compliment in broad daylight, I’m legally required to cherish it.”

The register was still a few aisles ahead, Bennett half-visible behind the counter with his reading glasses low on his nose, looking personally offended by a receipt printer. They could’ve kept walking. Should have, probably.

Cameron didn’t.

Because she was still smiling.

Because her fingers had curled briefly against his at his side, meeting him there without making a production out of it, and that small contact was still sitting in his palm like something warmer than it had any right to be.

Because she’d said something a minute ago that he hadn’t stopped feeling yet.

The part people built things out of.

He hadn’t answered it properly. Not out loud. He’d gotten close—too close, maybe—and then rescued them both by making a joke in front of the clamps.

But the truth of it was still lodged somewhere under his ribs.

This was the part people built things out of.

Not dramatic declarations. Not candlelit first dates. Not the big, easy-to-name moments everyone knew how to recognize.

This.

Her hand on his forearm while accusing his futon of moral failure. Her shoulder brushing his in a hardware aisle. Her listening while he explained porch screws like it mattered. The two of them standing under ugly lights with dust in the air and some old man up front still fighting for his mulch rights like democracy depended on it.

Ordinary things.

Real things.

Things that lasted because nobody was trying too hard to make them look like something else.

Cameron looked down at the basket like he needed a second, then glanced toward the register again.

And stopped.

“Actually,” he said, the word coming out like he’d just remembered something practical—which he had, mostly—“hold on.”

He turned away from the register before she could fully prepare herself for escape.

“I need one more thing.”

That was true enough.

He did need something else.

Had he remembered it because he saw the house-number display near the endcap?

Yes.

Was he also extremely willing to let that memory buy him another ten minutes with her still inside his world, still smiling about tool belts and stain samples and power-tool supervision?

Also yes.

He nodded toward a narrower aisle off to the left, where the shelves shifted from heavy hardware into the prettier, more dangerous territory of exterior details—hooks, numbers, door knockers, mail slots, porch bells, little brackets that probably cost too much because somebody had decided to call the finish “aged bronze” instead of brown.

“House numbers,” he said, slowing enough for her to fall in beside him again. “Place on Alder’s got these old plastic ones by the steps. Warped from sun. Two of them are hanging on by spite and one crooked screw.”

He glanced over at her.

“Client didn’t technically ask me to replace them.”

A beat.

“But every time I walk past them, they make the whole porch look like it gave up.”

His mouth tipped.

“And after your very emotional speech about building real life in hardware aisles, I feel like we can’t allow that.”

He heard it as soon as he said it—how lightly he’d dressed the line, how much of her sentence he’d carried forward anyway.

His eyes slid back to hers, a little softer now beneath the grin.

He had heard her.

He hoped she knew that.

Then he faced the wall of numbers because if he kept looking at her while thinking about it, he was going to say something that would make Bennett look up from the register and start charging admission.

The display had three rows of options: black metal, brushed nickel, oil-rubbed bronze, cheap shiny brass, a couple of ceramic tile numbers that looked like they belonged on a beach rental and nowhere near Alder Street. Cameron reached for a matte black three, held it up, then made a face and put it back.

“Too new,” he said.

Then he picked up an aged bronze six, turning it in his hand so the light caught the worn edges.

“This one’s better.”

He held it toward her between two fingers, watching her reaction more than the hardware itself.

Not because he didn’t know what he thought.

Because he wanted to see what she saw.

That was becoming a problem too.

The way he wanted her opinion on things that had never required anyone else’s input before. The way her eye felt like a second language running alongside his own—different, but somehow translating the same room.

He shifted closer without thinking, shoulder almost touching hers again as he reached for another number.

“For the record,” he added, voice lower now, teasing woven through the warmth, “this is not me stalling because you got embarrassed and looked cute about it.”

A beat.

“I genuinely forgot the numbers.”

Another beat.

“Mostly.”

He looked at her then, fully aware of the crime he’d just committed against his own credibility, and smiled anyway.

Because he could.

Because she was here.

Because apparently this was what he did now—flirt with Lucy Corbett between porch hardware and old floorboards while pretending his chest didn’t still tighten every time she said something that made the future feel like a thing with edges.

He took two numbers from the hook, then paused over the display.

“Now this,” he said, tapping one of the ceramic options with a knuckle, “is where a lesser man gets tempted.”

He pulled it free and turned it toward her. The thing had blue little hand-painted vines around the edge, overly cheerful and completely wrong for the house he’d described.

“See? This is a trap. Some guy thinks, ‘Oh, that’s got character.’ Then suddenly the porch looks like it sells homemade jam and judges you for not composting.”

He set it back immediately.

“Dangerous territory.”

The smile stayed in his voice, but he kept watching her from the corner of his eye as she looked over the options. The store hummed around them. Bennett’s register drawer snapped open again. Somewhere toward plumbing, a kid asked loudly whether a toilet part was “supposed to look like that,” and Cameron had to press his mouth together to keep from laughing.

It was so stupidly normal.

And because of that, it felt intimate in a way he hadn’t expected.

He picked up a small packet of matching screws and dropped it into the basket with the rest of the supplies.

“Also,” he said after a second, glancing down at her, “you accusing me of needing monitoring around power tools is hurtful.”

His tone said the opposite.

“I have only made one questionable decision with a circular saw, and in my defense, I was nineteen and overconfident.”

A beat.

“No one died. Very important detail.”

He leaned one hip lightly against the end of the shelf, letting the basket settle against his thigh. He liked the way she looked here. Not because she fit the place naturally, not exactly, but because she wasn’t trying to. She was just bringing herself into it—curiosity, judgment, taste, dry commentary, soft eyes when she thought he wasn’t ready for it.

“You’re right, though,” he admitted, a little quieter.

Not about the power tools.

About noticing.

His gaze dropped briefly to the items in the basket—the screws, the filler, the stain, the pry bar—then lifted back to her face.

“I do notice more than people think.”

That one came out plain.

Maybe because she had said it first. Maybe because he liked hearing her say it enough that he wanted to meet her there instead of pretending it hadn’t landed.

“I used to let folks assume otherwise.” His mouth curved faintly, not quite amused. “It was easier.”

There were a hundred things underneath that.

High school. Baseball. Being liked. Being underestimated in ways that sometimes worked in his favor and sometimes made him feel hollow without knowing why.

But he didn’t drag all of that into the aisle.

He just gave her the present shape of it.

“Now I’d rather actually be paying attention.”

His eyes held hers.

“To the porch. To the house numbers.” A softer pause. “To you.”

The last two words came out quieter than the rest.

Not showy. Not big.

Just true enough to change the air between them again.

And he let it.

For once, he didn’t rush to ruin it immediately.

He let the fluorescent lights hum. Let the store keep moving around them. Let the basket hang heavy against his wrist and the little packet of screws settle against the can of stain.

Then, because he knew both of them well enough by now to understand that too much stillness in a hardware aisle could become its own kind of problem, he tilted his head toward the display.

“So,” he said, voice warming again, “since you’re supervising, I need a ruling.”

He held up two finishes this time—aged bronze in one hand, matte black in the other.

“Matte black is clean. Safe. Probably fine.”

He lifted the bronze slightly.

“This one’s got more history. Not as sharp. It’ll sit better against the brick.”

He already knew what he wanted.

He wanted her to say it.

His mouth tipped.

“And before you accuse me of leading the witness, just know I am absolutely leading the witness.”

There was that confidence again, easy and playful, the kind that had never really left him but had softened into something less careless with age.

He moved the bronze number a little closer to her.

“I just want to hear you explain why I’m right.”

A beat.

“Professionally, of course.”

Then, with his eyes still on hers, he added, lower:

“Since we’re keeping this respectful in the work environment.”

Lucy felt the smile hit before she could contain it.

Not because of the joke itself.

Because of the way he looked at her when he made it.

Like her embarrassment delighted him. Like he was storing it somewhere carefully instead of using it against her. The expression sat warm and easy across his face, open in that dangerous way he’d gotten lately whenever she stopped pretending she wasn’t affecting him.

And apparently now whenever she visibly admitted he was affecting her too.

Which felt unfair.

Her hand stayed over part of her face for another second anyway, mostly because lowering it meant fully meeting that grin again, and she already knew she was losing ground.

“Legally required?” she repeated, finally peeking at him through her fingers. “That feels fake. I think you made that law up specifically to terrorize me.”

But the second the words left her mouth, she could hear the laughter underneath them.

He wasn’t moving toward the register anymore.

Lucy noticed that almost immediately.

Not consciously at first—just the subtle shift of him turning back toward her instead of forward, basket hanging from his wrist while Bennett wrestled with the receipt printer in the distance. The store’s overhead lights buzzed softly above them, and somewhere near the entrance, the mulch debate had apparently evolved into a conversation about drainage.

Still going.

Incredible commitment, honestly.

Then Cameron said hold on.

Lucy narrowed her eyes automatically.

Not suspicious exactly.

Aware.

Because she was starting to learn the difference between Cameron genuinely remembering something and Cameron deciding he wasn’t done with a moment yet.

And the dangerous thing was she wasn’t done either.

The realization landed quietly while she followed him toward the narrower aisle. The hardware shifted around them as they moved deeper into the decorative section—less industrial here, more curated. Metal hooks. Porch bells. House numbers lined in neat rows under tiny printed labels. The air smelled faintly different this far back, warmer somehow beneath the sawdust and old wood.

Lucy listened while he explained the Alder house numbers, and affection tugged unexpectedly at the corner of her chest again when he described them hanging on “by spite and one crooked screw.”

Of course he noticed things like that.

Not just structural problems.

The tiny details that changed how a place felt.

That part mattered more to her than he probably understood.

Her gaze slid sideways toward him when he brought up her speech about building real life in hardware aisles, and something softened immediately beneath her ribs at the way he carried the sentence forward instead of letting it disappear into teasing.

He had heard her.

Fully.

Not brushed past it. Not laughed it away.

Kept it.

Lucy’s throat tightened slightly before she looked back toward the display so he wouldn’t see how much that landed.

Or maybe so he wouldn’t see it immediately.

Too late for invisible now, probably.

She watched him sort through the numbers instead, the easy certainty in his hands giving way to actual consideration as he turned different finishes under the fluorescent lights. Matte black. Bronze. Ceramic.

The little shifts in his expression fascinated her more than the hardware itself.

Too new.

Better.

Wrong for the house.

He thought about spaces the way some people thought about conversations.

Like tone mattered.

Like details changed meaning.

When he held the bronze six toward her, Lucy stepped closer automatically to look at it properly, her shoulder nearly brushing his again before she consciously registered the movement.

The metal looked worn at the edges in a way that softened it against the harsh overhead light.

Lived-in.

She liked that.

Then he mentioned stalling.

Lucy laughed under her breath immediately, the sound quieter this time, more familiar than startled.

“Oh, you are absolutely stalling,” she said.

But the accusation lacked any real bite because she could hear the truth woven through his teasing too.

Mostly.

That word had become dangerous with him.

Mostly honest. Mostly joking. Mostly casual.

Enough truth left visible underneath to make her pulse trip every time.

Her eyes lifted when he smiled at her afterward, completely unapologetic about being caught, and something inside her loosened unexpectedly at the sight of it.

Not slick.

Not trying to win.

Just… comfortable being seen.

That felt newer than the flirting did.

Then he picked up the ceramic option.

Lucy stared at it in immediate disbelief.

The little painted vines.

The aggressively cheerful glaze.

The energy of a porch that absolutely sold homemade lavender soap beside a handwritten chalkboard sign.

Her laugh escaped before she could stop it.

“Oh, absolutely not,” she said, horrified. “That porch would start passive-aggressively recommending farmers markets.”

His mouth pressed together against a laugh too, and the shared reaction sparked through her instantly—quick and easy and oddly domestic in a way she wasn’t emotionally prepared to examine too closely.

Because that was becoming the issue now.

Not attraction.

Not chemistry.

The rhythm of it.

How naturally they kept arriving in the same place together.

The store noise folded around them again after that. A register drawer snapping open. A low burst of static from somebody’s radio near the stockroom. The metallic clink of screws settling in the basket when Cameron dropped the packet inside.

Then he looked at her and accused her of hurting his feelings about power tools.

Lucy’s eyes narrowed with immediate suspicion.

“One questionable decision?” she repeated slowly.

She shifted closer again without thinking, crossing her arms loosely while studying him like she was evaluating a witness statement.

“That wording alone tells me there were definitely multiple questionable decisions.”

The fluorescent light caught against the edge of his grin, and she could practically see him deciding how much information he was willing to surrender.

Then he leaned against the shelf.

And something about the shift in his posture changed the air around them again.

Less movement.

More attention.

Lucy felt it immediately when his voice quieted after that.

Noticed more than people think.

The words settled differently than the teasing had.

Plain.

Unprotected.

Her expression softened before she could stop it.

Because she understood that instinct better than she wanted to.

Let people underestimate you.

Let them decide they already understood you.

Sometimes it was easier than explaining the parts that required patience to see correctly.

She watched his gaze drop briefly to the basket before lifting back to her, and when he said he’d rather actually be paying attention now, something in her chest pulled tight all over again.

To the porch.

To the house numbers.

To you.

Lucy forgot the rest of the aisle for one suspended second.

The lights. The shelves. Bennett somewhere up front losing a war against office equipment.

All of it blurred softer around the edges because Cameron had looked directly at her and said something careful enough not to demand anything while still feeling unmistakably real.

Not performance.

Not charm.

Attention.

Intentional attention.

And somehow that affected her more.

Her fingers tightened slightly against her own sleeve before she uncrossed her arms again, needing somewhere else to put the feeling gathering low and warm beneath her ribs.

When she spoke, her voice came quieter too.

“I think,” she said slowly, “there’s a difference between people looking at something and actually seeing it.”

Her eyes stayed on his.

“You do the second one.”

The admission left her feeling exposed almost instantly afterward, but not in the same panicked way vulnerability used to. Less like standing too close to an edge.

More like stepping onto something solid and realizing it held.

Cameron let the silence breathe after that instead of rushing to smooth over it immediately, and Lucy became acutely aware of the hum of the lights overhead, the weight of the basket against his thigh, the tiny scrape of her boot against old floorboards when she shifted closer without fully realizing she’d done it.

Then, mercifully, he brought the conversation back to house numbers before she combusted in aisle seven.

Lucy exhaled softly through a smile.

“There he is,” she murmured.

But the warmth stayed.

She looked down at the finishes he held up, forcing her brain to engage with something tangible again. Matte black. Bronze.

Safe versus lived-in.

Predictable versus belonging.

Honestly, the answer was obvious.

Her fingers brushed lightly against the bronze number when he moved it closer to her, the metal cool beneath her fingertips.

“This one’s better,” she said immediately.

Then her mouth curved.

“Professionally.”

His grin widened at that, pleased in advance, and Lucy felt another pulse of affection at how transparent he’d become lately about enjoying her.

Not hiding it.

Not rationing it out carefully.

Just… letting himself have reactions to her openly.

Dangerous development.

She turned the bronze piece slightly beneath the light, studying the finish while she gathered the rest of the thought.

“The black’s too sharp for the brick,” she said. “It’d stand out first instead of belonging to the house.”

Her thumb brushed absently along the worn edge.

“This one already feels connected to the porch. Like it’s been there long enough to earn the weathering.”

Then she glanced back up at him.

“And you are leading the witness,” she added softly. “But unfortunately for me, you’re also right.”

The last part came out quieter than intended.

Not about the hardware anymore.

Lucy realized it the second the words left her mouth.

Judging by the way Cameron looked at her afterward, he realized it too.

Cameron heard it.

Not just the words.

The slip underneath them.

Unfortunately for me, you’re also right.

His fingers tightened slightly around the house number before he could stop them, the bronze edge pressing into the pad of his thumb. For a second, the whole aisle went strangely narrow around them—the display of finishes, the crooked little rows of numbers, the old boards under his boots, the hum of the lights overhead. All of it stayed where it was, but Lucy had pulled the center of the room toward her without even trying.

Because that wasn’t about the bronze.

Not really.

He looked at her for a beat longer than he probably should have, letting the quiet sit there because she hadn’t run from it. Because she’d said something real and stayed put afterward, even with her hand still near the number and that soft, caught look on her face like she knew exactly what she’d done.

His mouth curved slowly.

Not triumphant.

Not smug.

Just warm.

“Unfortunately for you,” he repeated, low enough that it stayed between them.

A tiny pause.

“I’m gonna remember that.”

He didn’t make it bigger than that. Didn’t pounce on it. Didn’t turn the moment into something she had to defend herself against.

But he let her know he’d heard her.

That he’d keep it.

Then he looked down at the bronze number in his hand, partly because it gave him somewhere to put the feeling and partly because if he kept watching her watch him, he was going to forget Bennett’s Hardware was a public establishment with at least three retired men and a child holding a toilet part somewhere within range.

He lifted the bronze piece again, giving it one last look under the fluorescent light.

“You’re right, though,” he said, sliding back into the work of it with an effort that felt almost physical. “Black would make the house try too hard. This one already knows where it lives.”

His eyes flicked to hers again.

“Which, professionally, is the goal.”

The smile that followed was a little softer than the joke deserved.

Then he took the matching numbers from the display, one by one, checking them against the address he had written on a folded scrap of paper from his back pocket. The paper had a pencil line down the middle and a few measurements scrawled in his father’s blocky handwriting beneath his own. He unfolded it with his thumb, glanced once, then grabbed the right sequence.

His hands knew the rhythm of this kind of thing: count, check, match finish, confirm screw pack. Easy. Familiar.

But his head was still half with her.

With the way she’d said he saw things. With the way she had touched the bronze edge like she was reading the feeling of it through her fingertips. With the way she’d looked at him after.

Cameron dropped the numbers into the basket more carefully than necessary and let out a small breath through his nose.

“You know,” he said, glancing toward the display again, “I’m starting to think you’re dangerous in hardware stores.”

His voice went lighter, but not all the way.

“I bring you in here thinking I’m gonna pick up porch screws and maybe get mocked for owning equipment, and suddenly you’re making philosophical rulings about house numbers.”

A beat.

“Very disruptive.”

He reached for another screw packet, checked the finish, then put it back with a faint shake of his head. Wrong tone. Too shiny. Bennett really did keep an incredible amount of offensive hardware in this store for a man who seemed personally judgmental of everyone else’s choices.

Cameron could feel Lucy still beside him, close enough that the sleeve of her shirt nearly brushed his arm every time either of them shifted.

He liked that proximity more than was strictly useful.

Especially here.

Especially now.

Because dinner had been candlelight and soft music and everything designed to make closeness feel inevitable. This was bins of screws and porch bells and fluorescent lights that made everybody look like they owed taxes.

And somehow, she still made him feel like the aisle had gone private.

He cleared his throat faintly, then glanced back toward the decorative hooks mounted along the next section of shelving.

That was when he saw them.

Small brass wall hooks. Nothing fancy. Not the shiny new kind. Aged, warm, lightly curved, the kind that looked like they belonged beside old wood and soft paint instead of a plastic organizer kit.

His attention caught on them immediately.

Not because of the Alder job.

Because of Lucy’s apartment.

The entryway. The way she’d dropped her bag on the chair that night because there hadn’t been a proper place for it. The denim jacket chair with no respect for itself. The tote bag hanging off the side like even the furniture had given up on boundaries. The little ceramic moon on the door. Her keys landing wherever they landed because the whole front space was warm and lived-in and hers, but not as settled as it could be.

He stepped toward the hooks without thinking.

Then stopped himself from reaching too fast, because the thought that came with them was quiet and unexpectedly intimate.

Something he could do at her place.

Not because she needed him to fix her life. Not because he wanted to show up with a tool bag and start improving things without permission like some man who thought competence made him entitled.

Just because he had noticed.

And because noticing her had started turning into this steady ache of wanting to make things easier where he could.

He picked up one of the hooks, turning it between his fingers. The finish was warm enough not to fight with her apartment. Not too shiny. Not too rustic. It had a little curve at the end, practical without looking like it belonged in a mudroom catalog.

His mouth twitched before he looked over at her.

“Okay,” he said carefully, like he was aware he was stepping into risky territory and doing it anyway. “I’m about to say something, and I need you to remember I’m a respectful man in a professional work environment.”

The seriousness in his tone lasted almost two seconds.

Almost.

He held up the hook.

“Your entryway needs one of these.”

A beat.

“Maybe two.”

He could practically feel the reaction coming, so he kept going before she could turn it into a felony.

“Not because I’m making executive decisions. I know that’s your department.” His eyes warmed. “But that chair by your window is carrying too much emotional and textile responsibility.”

The grin got away from him then.

“The denim jacket, the black jacket, the tote bag—Luce, that chair is one scarf away from organizing a union.”

He looked back down at the hook, rubbing his thumb lightly over the curved metal.

“This would work by the door. Right under that little moon thing. Keys, bag, whatever jacket you keep pretending isn’t going to end up on the chair again.”

His voice had softened by the end of it despite the joke.

Because he could see it.

Not in some abstract way.

He could actually picture the place—her lamp glow, the rust couch, the record shelf, the warm clutter that wasn’t mess so much as evidence that she lived a full, textured little life above Main Street. He could picture himself there too, which was the dangerous part. Standing in her entry with a drill in his hand while she hovered nearby pretending not to supervise. Her saying the hook was crooked when it wasn’t. Him measuring it twice just to annoy her. The two of them spending twenty minutes arguing over half an inch like it mattered because, in a way, it did.

Because it would be theirs.

A tiny, ordinary mark of him being allowed somewhere.

That thought pressed under his ribs.

He looked back at her, and the flirt in his expression gentled into something more careful.

“I noticed it the other night,” he said.

No big claim. No forced sentiment.

Just fact.

“You’ve got that whole place feeling like you, and then that one chair’s fighting for its life by the door.”

A pause.

“I could fix that.”

There it was.

Not an excuse. Not a demand. Not a promise that assumed access.

Just an offer, set down between them as plainly as the bronze numbers in the basket.

His fingers shifted on the hook, and he lifted one shoulder lightly, letting the teasing edge return just enough.

“Or I can pretend I didn’t see it and let the chair continue its slow collapse into chaos. Your call.”

He set the hook back on the rack instead of dropping it in the basket.

That mattered too.

He wasn’t buying it for her without her saying yes.

He just let it hang there, warm and possible, while the store moved around them in the background.

Then he reached for the bronze house numbers again, sorting them neatly in the basket like he needed his hands busy.

“Also, for the record,” he added, glancing sideways at her, “I fully expect you’d supervise the whole thing.”

His mouth curved.

“Probably with coffee. Probably by standing three feet away and saying nothing for just long enough to make me nervous.”

That image pleased him so much his smile deepened before he could stop it.

“And then you’d say something like, ‘I’m not judging you,’ in a tone that makes it real clear you are judging me.”

He turned toward her a little more, shoulder brushing hers again, close enough now that the hook display felt like it had become an extension of the conversation instead of a product section.

The air smelled like dust and metal and cedar shims. Somewhere up front, Bennett muttered something about thermal paper like it had personally wronged him.

Cameron barely heard it.

His attention was on Lucy’s face.

On whether the offer landed too close or just right.

On whether she understood what he meant underneath it—that he wanted to be useful in her world too, not just invite her into his.

He wanted to know the things in her apartment that needed fixing. The ones she’d learned to ignore because they weren’t urgent. The window that stuck. The shelf that sagged. The hook that should’ve been there before now.

Small things.

Real things.

The part people actually built things out of.

His eyes held hers for one more beat before he nodded toward the display, voice low and playful again, but with the softness still tucked underneath.

“So,” he said. “Professional opinion?”

A beat.

“Is that hook allowed within ten feet of your aesthetic, or do I need to keep looking before you accuse me of crimes against Honey Bee-adjacent interior integrity?”

Lucy’s fingers stayed on the brass hook for a moment longer than necessary.

The metal was cool and solid under her fingertips, but the sensation barely registered compared to the warmth spreading steadily through her chest.

Because he had noticed the chair.

Not in passing.

Not as a joke he invented on the spot.

He had walked into her apartment, taken in the small disorganized corner she’d long ago stopped seeing clearly, and remembered it well enough to imagine exactly where this hook would go.

Under the moon by the door.

Keys.

Bag.

Jackets.

A practical fix for a problem so ordinary she’d never considered that someone else might care about it.

The realization settled more deeply than she expected.

Her throat tightened around it.

Then he said he could fix that.

The words landed with almost disarming simplicity. No flourish. No implication that she needed rescuing. No assumption that he was entitled to alter anything in her space.

Only an offer.

Useful.

Specific.

Patient.

Lucy looked at the hook where he had set it back instead of claiming it for her, and that detail hit nearly as hard as the offer itself.

He wanted to help.

But he was waiting to be invited.

That distinction mattered so much that she felt it physically, a slow ache unfurling beneath her ribs.

Then he started describing her standing nearby with coffee, pretending not to judge him, and the image sharpened until it became almost tactile.

Her apartment in late afternoon light.

Music playing low from the record player.

Cameron on a step stool or crouched by the wall, measuring carefully while she leaned against the entryway with a mug warming her hands.

His concentration.

Her commentary.

The kind of comfortable bickering that only happened when someone belonged enough to leave a small mark behind.

Not temporary.

Not hypothetical.

A hook in the wall where there hadn’t been one before because he had been there.

The intimacy of that struck her harder than she was prepared for.

Lucy became aware of his shoulder brushing hers again, of the steady warmth at her side, of the basket hanging from his wrist, of the quiet hope beneath his teasing.

He wasn’t asking whether the hook matched her apartment.

He was asking whether there was room for him to do something small and lasting inside her world.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Bennett muttered to himself near the register. Somewhere deeper in the store, something metal clattered onto concrete.

The sounds seemed oddly distant.

Lucy lifted her eyes to his.

He was watching her openly now, his expression relaxed at the edges but attentive underneath. Ready to laugh if she needed to turn the moment into something lighter. Ready to let it remain serious if she didn’t.

That flexibility touched her in a different way than grand declarations ever could.

He was giving her room.

Her fingers curled slightly against the hook before she let it go.

When she spoke, her voice came softer than she intended.

“I like that you noticed.”

The admission left her feeling vulnerable in a way that was less frightening than it should have been. She held his gaze and let herself stay there.

“Not because I can’t hang a hook.”

A faint smile touched her mouth.

“I absolutely can.”

The smile deepened just enough to acknowledge the obvious truth beneath the joke.

“But because you saw something small that would make my day easier, and your first instinct was to offer.”

Her chest tightened again as she said it aloud, hearing the shape of what moved her so much.

Not the fix.

The thought behind it.

Lucy glanced briefly toward the hook, then back to him.

“And because you didn’t just throw it in the basket and decide for me.”

The words came quieter.

“You asked.”

Her shoulder remained against his now, neither of them pretending the contact was incidental anymore.

The warmth of him steadied something in her.

Lucy let herself imagine the scene once more—not as a possibility she was afraid to name, but as something she genuinely wanted.

Cameron in her apartment.

Coffee on the table.

Tools spread across the floor.

His laugh echoing against her walls.

A tiny improvement that would become part of the place every time she walked through the door.

Her smile softened into something less teasing and more certain.

“I think,” she said, brushing her fingertips over the brass hook one last time, “that this is exactly the kind of thing allowed within ten feet of my aesthetic.”

A small pause.

“Provided the installer is willing to accept commentary.”

The joke came easily, but her pulse was steady now, anchored by a growing clarity she no longer wanted to hide from.

Lucy turned fully toward him, close enough that the basket nudged lightly against her leg.

Her eyes searched his for one brief beat, making sure he understood the answer beneath the answer.

Then she said it plainly.

“Yes.”

The single word settled between them with quiet certainty.

“Yes, you can fix the chair.”

A softer smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

“And yes, I’ll make coffee.”

She let the promise sit there for a moment, warm and unguarded.

Then her brows rose with a familiar spark of dry humor.

“But for the record, if the hook is crooked, I reserve the right to judge you mercilessly.”

Her hand slipped from the display and found the sleeve near his wrist, fingers resting there lightly for a second before she let them fall away.

The touch was brief.

Intentional.

A confirmation rather than a question.

Lucy held his gaze, the warmth in her chest no longer sharp with surprise but settling into something steadier.

Something with edges.

Something she could imagine walking into every day.

“Professionally,” she added, her voice low and unmistakably fond.