Chapter 11
Ethan
Ethan pulled into Mark’s driveway, shutting off the engine with a sigh. The day's exhaustion clung to him, but there was no time to dwell on it. After swinging by home for a quick shower and to change, he was now in his usual handyman gear—well-worn jeans, a fitted gray T-shirt smudged with traces of past projects, and his sturdy work boots.
Rolling his shoulders, he stepped out of the truck, grabbing his toolbox from the back. The cool evening air did little to shake off the lingering fatigue from his shift, but something about getting his hands on a project—fixing, building, making things right—always helped reset his mind.
With a steady breath, he pushed open the front door and stepped inside, taking in the warm, familiar scent of the house. His gaze flicked over the foyer.
He wanted to start in the entryway.
“Alright,” he muttered, setting his tools down with a soft thunk. “Let’s get to work.”
He turned in a slow circle, taking in the space. Mark’s house was something else—beautiful in an old-money kind of way, but lived in, warm. His late wife’s touches were everywhere, not in a loud or overdone way, but in the subtle things—hand-chosen fixtures, the way the molding curved just so, the upgraded accents that caught his eye as he glanced into each room. She was everywhere in this place.
Ethan crouched near the coat closet, He picked up a small bag and ran his fingers over the antique brass hinges and handles Jessica had picked out. “Well, aren’t you fancy,” he muttered. He grinned, carefully unscrewing and replacing the old hardware with the new.
As he worked, he talked absently to the inanimate objects around him—a habit he’d picked up years ago, especially when working alone. “I hope you appreciate the upgrade,” he said, tightening a screw. “This is some high-end stuff. No cheap factory knockoffs for you, no sir.”
The hinges gleamed under the light, their aged brass giving a warm glow. He stepped back, nodding in satisfaction. “See? That’s an improvement. You’re welcome.”
Grabbing the roll of painter’s tape, he started lining the edges of the foyer’s walls in preparation for repainting. The corners, as expected, were the worst. He fought with the tape, his fingers struggling to smooth it into place. “Why,” he grumbled, pressing down on a stubborn edge, “do you have to be so damn difficult? You’re just a wall —what’s your problem?”
The tape, of course, did not answer.
With a sigh, he moved to sit down for a second—only for the bench in the foyer to let out an ominous crack .
Ethan froze, his weight suspended halfway to sitting. Slowly, he leaned forward, checking the leg. A long, thin fracture ran along the wood, splitting it almost to the base.
“Well, that’s not great,” he said, running a hand along the damage. “You’ve been holding on, huh?”
Fixing things had always been second nature to him. It was easier than fixing people. Wood, nails, screws—those things made sense. People? Problems? Finances? Not so much.
Pulling out some wood glue and clamps, he got to work. “You’re gonna be good as new,” he assured the bench. “Just hold still, and I’ll patch you right up.”
As he worked, his thoughts drifted back to the night before—sitting at the kitchen table, telling his parents about the advance check that he had received from Mark. His dad had looked at him like a miracle worker. His mom had clasped his hands, eyes full of gratitude.
The money was already gone after he made payments today—bills, medical costs, things that kept their world turning. But for once, Ethan didn’t feel like he was drowning.
He sighed, adjusting the clamp on the bench leg. “One thing at a time,” he murmured, more to himself than anything else. “You get through one thing at a time.”
As the wood glue set, he returned to the walls, sanding and spackling. He worked through the tiredness, letting the rhythmic movement of the tool steady him.
Jessica was such a thorough planner. Last night, Mark pointed out a handwritten list of paint colors she wanted for every room in the house, including accent walls, on the wall above her desk. This will make things easy on him when he buys paint tomorrow.
Maybe that’s what this home needs—just a little touch-up and tender loving care.
Maybe that’s what they all needed.
Just as Ethan was finishing up, he heard the front door open. He frowned, glancing at the time. It was after 9 PM.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway, slow but deliberate. Ethan wiped his hands on his jeans and turned, expecting to see Mark in his usual suit. Instead, Mark stood in the doorway, looking more undone than usual, his tie gone, his sleeves rolled up, exhaustion written in every line of his face.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Mark’s gaze flickered to the taped walls, the closet, the bench. His expression shifted—something unreadable passing through his eyes.
Ethan cleared his throat. “Long day at work?” he said, resting a hand on the worktable. “Hope you don’t mind me taking a little creative liberty and starting in the foyer.”
Mark blinked, glancing at the freshly repaired walls, the repaired bench, and the new hardware on the closet. Something on his face softened. “No,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “I don’t mind.”
Mark stepped further into the room, running a hand along the brass handle on the closet door. His fingers lingered, and Ethan saw real emotion breaking through the carefully constructed stoic persona for the first time.
Mark murmured, almost to himself. “She picked these out.”
Ethan nodded. “Figured as much. That’s why I wanted to make sure they got put up.”
Mark exhaled slowly, his posture shifting as if he was standing in a place, he hadn’t let himself stand in a long time. “Thank you,” he said.
Ethan shrugged, but there was warmth in his voice. “Hey, we gotta do things right for her.”
For a moment, silence settled between them—not awkward, not heavy. Just there.
Mark turned to go, then hesitated. “You’re good at this,” he said, nodding toward the finished work. “Better than I expected.”
Ethan grinned. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment, Mr. Jensen.”
Mark scoffed but didn’t deny it.
And as Ethan watched him head back to his bedroom, he felt something settle in his chest—something steady, something solid.
Maybe this wasn’t just about repairing a house.
Maybe, just maybe, it was about rebuilding something else entirely.
Ethan was focused, or at least, trying to be. He tightened the last screw on the newly installed light dimmer in the hallway, taking a step back to admire his work. The warm glow illuminated the space perfectly, casting soft shadows against the built-ins. It was satisfying to see something come together, to fix these things that had been left undone.
He grabbed a rag from his toolbox, wiping his hands off as he stretched his arms over his head, rolling out his tired shoulders. He had maybe thirty more minutes left before he called it a night. Just a few final touches—
“Hey, I’m going to hit the sauna for a bit,” Mark’s voice drifted down the hallway casually, as if he hadn’t just stepped out of his bedroom looking like that.
Ethan turned, and oh hell.
Mark was standing there, a thin towel draped over his shoulder, his hair slightly tousled, his usual buttoned-up lawyer aesthetic wholly abandoned. He was wearing nothing but a pair of short, very short, black running shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Broad, muscular thighs, a strong hairy chest with just the right amount of definition, and arms that looked like they belonged to someone who spent their time splitting firewood instead of litigating real estate cases.
Ethan swallowed. Nope. Not looking. Definitely not looking.
“Right, yeah,” Ethan forced himself to respond, eyes darting back to his workbench as if a screwdriver was suddenly the most fascinating thing in existence. “Sauna. Sounds… relaxing.”
Mark gave a slight smirk, adjusting the towel over his shoulder. “It is. The best part of my routine.”
Ethan nodded, refusing to let his gaze drift lower than Mark’s jawline. But his brain? His brain was fully betraying him, taking detailed notes like a forensic analyst. Jesus, those thighs. Those arms. That—nope. Professional. Professional.
Mark must’ve noticed Ethan’s rigid posture because he quirked an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You good?”
Ethan cleared his throat, forcing a casual shrug. “Yeah, man. Just… you know, busy.” He gestured vaguely to the built-ins.
Mark nodded, his smirk deepening slightly, like he knew something Ethan didn’t. “Alright then. Try not to work too hard.”
With that, he walked past, heading toward the garage where the sauna was. Ethan definitely didn’t watch him go. Definitely didn’t track the way his back muscles moved under his skin. Nope. Definitely didn’t look at that magnificent ass.
The moment Mark was out of sight, Ethan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself.
Professional, Ethan. This is your client. This is a job. Get it together.
He forced himself back to work, double-checking the last few tasks on his list. But his focus was shot. Completely obliterated. Because all he could think about was how big Mark was— broad-shouldered, strong, thick in all the right places. And worse? Ethan had made an absolute fool of himself, stammering like some high school kid with a crush on the star quarterback.
He groaned, rubbing his face. “This is a problem. ”
About thirty minutes later, Ethan was gathering his tools, getting ready to head out, when the garage door opened.
Mark walked back in, his skin damp from sweat.
Ethan looked up at precisely the wrong moment.
Oh, come on.
Mark ran a hand through his damp hair, sighing contentedly as he rolled his neck, completely oblivious to Ethan's existential crisis. His chest was glistening under the soft glow of the hallway light, and Ethan had to physically stop himself from staring like some creep.
“You’re still here?” Mark asked, voice low and relaxed from the heat of the sauna.
Ethan swallowed, gripping his toolbox like a lifeline. “Uh, yeah. Just finishing up.”
Mark nodded, rubbing the towel against the back of his neck. “Place is already looking better.”
Ethan cleared his throat, desperate to shake himself out of whatever spell he was under. “Yeah, well… it helps when your client gives you free rein to do things right.”
Mark gave him a thoughtful look, then—unexpectedly—reached out and clapped a hand on Ethan’s shoulder.
It was meant to be a simple gesture, casual, nothing more. But Ethan felt it everywhere. Mark’s grip was firm, warm from the sauna, and for some reason, that small moment of contact sent a bolt of something unfamiliar straight through Ethan’s chest.
“Appreciate it,” Mark said simply before heading toward the kitchen for water.
Ethan stood there, completely frozen.
Then, after a long moment, he let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he muttered to himself, “Yeah. This is definitely a problem.”