Chapter 4
Mark
The firm was quiet by the time Mark packed up his briefcase, his office dimly lit by the soft glow of his desk lamp. Most of the other attorneys had gone home, and even Diana had finally left, after threatening him with bodily harm if he stayed past nine again.
He rolled his shoulders, exhaustion sinking into his bones. It had been a long day. Hell, it had been a long week . The therapy session with Dr. Martin had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, dredging up things he had spent years locking away. He was used to burying himself in work—letting the hours slip away until he was too tired to think. But tonight, he just wanted peace.
A hot shower. A quiet drink. The sauna.
He pulled his coat on and grabbed his keys, stepping out into the crisp evening air. The drive home was uneventful, the roads mostly empty as the last of the sunset bled into the horizon.
When he pulled into the driveway, a truck was parked in his spot.
Mark exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening on the steering wheel.
Right. The handyman.
Diana had mentioned hiring someone, but after the chaos of the day, he had completely forgotten. He parked beside the truck, irritation simmering beneath his exhaustion. He didn’t like the idea of someone—a stranger—in his house, especially after a long day when all he wanted was solitude.
He stepped inside, already preparing to be polite but firm.
Then he froze.
The scent of sawdust and fresh-cut wood filled the air, mingling with the familiar warmth of home. The built-ins—which had sat half-finished for a long time—had taken form in just a matter of hours. The craftsmanship was clean, precise.
Mark’s gaze traveled to the man standing near the shelves, aligning a level against the frame.
The police officer.
The same officer who had pulled him over the day before.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Ethan pulled off his headphones, his brows lifting as recognition dawned.
“Well,” Ethan said, tossing the level onto his travel workbench. “This is unexpected.”
Mark blinked, his mind catching up. “You’re the handyman?”
Ethan smirked. “Guilty.”
Mark ran a hand down his face, exhaling.
Of all the people…
Ethan leaned against the built-in, wiping his hands on a rag. “Didn’t expect to see me again so soon, huh?”
Mark shook his head. “Not particularly.”
Ethan chuckled. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Mark crossed his arms. “What are you doing moonlighting as a carpenter?”
Ethan shrugged. “Overtime at the station is a little sparse this time of year. Gotta pick up work where I can.”
Mark’s gaze flickered to the shelving. The work was impressive—not just functional, but elegant. Clean lines, perfect symmetry. It wasn’t the kind of job you picked up on the side for extra cash. It was the work of someone with real skill.
“This is…” Mark hesitated, glancing over the progress. “You’re good at this.”
Ethan flashed a grin. “I should be. My dad taught me everything I know.”
That caught Mark off guard. “Really?”
Ethan nodded. “Yeah. My dad’s an auto mechanic. He taught me to work with my hands. I picked up carpentry along the way, along with electrical, plumbing, and cars.”
Mark studied him for a second. “And you’re a cop.”
Ethan smirked. “And a damn good one.”
Mark huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Overachiever.”
Ethan just shrugged. “Gotta keep busy.”
Something in the way he said it struck a chord. Gotta keep busy. Mark knew exactly what that felt like—keeping busy so you didn’t have to sit alone with your thoughts.
Ethan wiped down his tools before glancing around. “Your house is… incredible. From the outside, it’s nice, but inside?” He let out a low whistle. “It feels like a home .”
Mark swallowed, eyes drifting across the living room, the elegant furniture, the warm lighting, the carefully placed stacks of books near the reading nook. And the pictures of Jessica, scattered throughout the room, untouched, unchanged.
“My wife decorated it,” Mark said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Ethan’s expression shifted—understanding flickering in his gaze. “She had an amazing eye for design.”
Mark nodded. “She was an interior decorator.” He hesitated. “She passed four years ago.”
Ethan was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Mark exhaled, gripping the back of a chair briefly before shaking his head. “It’s fine. It was—”
“—not fine,” Ethan finished, his voice calm.
Mark stilled.
No one ever called him out like that. No one ever looked past the well-rehearsed answer.
Mark’s fingers flexed against the chair. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the moment.
Ethan, sensing the shift, cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Jensen—”
“Mark.”
Ethan raised a brow.
Mark sighed. “Just call me Mark.”
Ethan grinned. “Alright. Mark.”
They stood in the quiet for a moment. Then Ethan reached out his hand. “I’ll be out of here in the next twenty minutes. Thanks for letting me work in your space.”
Mark took the handshake—and immediately regretted it.
The electricity that shot through him was unexpected.
Not in a romantic way. Not even in a way he could name . Just a connection—like meeting someone you were supposed to know, but couldn’t figure out why.
Ethan met his gaze, his smirk faltering just slightly.
Mark pulled back first, rubbing his palm against his slacks. “Have a good night Please let yourself out when you’re done, I’m going to shower.”
Ethan nodded. “You too Sir, enjoy your night.”
As soon as the bedroom door shut, Mark exhaled heavily.
Something about that man… unsettled him. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that made his carefully constructed walls feel less secure.
Shaking it off, he headed to his bathroom, stripping out of his work clothes before grabbing a towel and making his way to the garage.
The sauna sat in the corner, compact but luxurious. Jessica had bought it for him years ago, insisting that recovery was just as important as the workouts. He stepped inside, the instant heat wrapping around him, pulling the tension from his muscles.
He leaned back, letting his head rest against the warm wood. His thoughts drifted.
Ethan.
The way he carried himself. The way he understood grief without prying. The way he spoke about his family, his work, as if everything depended on him.
Mark sighed, running a hand through his damp hair.
He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He recognized it because he did the same damn thing.
For the first time in years, Mark felt something other than exhaustion.
A connection.
Something unfamiliar.
And he had no idea what it meant.