Chapter 21
Olivia
By five o'clock, the sun was gone and the temperature had dropped hard.
I watched from the garage as the crew packed up, their voices carrying across the clearing in the cold air. Collins said something that made Frank and Walt laugh. They climbed into their trucks, headlights cutting across the timber frame as they pulled out one by one.
Then it was quiet.
Ben was still out there. I could see him near the material pile, crouched over his toolbox, moving slower than he had all day.
I turned back to my laptop, trying to focus on the spreadsheet I'd been updating—material costs, labor hours, and all the bleeding red numbers that told me we were already behind budget. But I kept glancing up at the opening where a garage door would eventually hang.
He was still crouched there, not moving.
I frowned.
I saved the file, closed the laptop, and walked out into the cold.
My breath came out in clouds, and the wind cut through my coat like it wasn't even there. I crossed the frozen mud, my boots crunching on the thin crust of ice that had formed in the tire ruts.
"Ben."
He didn't turn around. His shoulders were hunched, his hands gripping the edge of the toolbox like he was trying to lift it but couldn't quite manage.
"Ben," I said again, louder this time.
He looked up. His face was drawn, pale under the work lights. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
"I'm good," he said. His voice was rough, strained. "Just finishing up."
"Your hands."
He glanced down at them, then quickly looked away. "They're fine."
They weren't fine.
Even from five feet away, I could see the blood. His knuckles were split open, the skin around them cracked and raw from the cold. His fingers were curled into stiff claws, trembling as he tried to grip the latch on the toolbox.
He couldn't close it.
"Get inside," I said.
"Liv, I'm—"
"Now."
I didn't wait for him to argue. I turned and walked back toward the garage, trusting that he'd follow. Behind me, I heard him curse under his breath. Then the sound of boots on frozen ground, slow and reluctant.
The space heater was still humming in the corner, throwing off enough warmth to take the edge off the brutal cold. I grabbed the first aid kit from my crate of supplies and set it on the folding table.
Ben stopped in the doorway, his shoulders filling the frame. He looked at the first aid kit, then at me.
"I'm fine."
"Sit," I said, pointing at the overturned bucket I'd been using as a stool.
"Olivia—"
"Sit down, Ben."
He hesitated. Then, slowly, he walked over and sat. His hands hung between his knees, fingers still curled into those useless claws.
I knelt in front of him and reached for his right hand.
He pulled back. "You don't have to—"
"Give me your hand."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he extended his hand. I took it carefully, cradling it between both of mine. His skin was ice-cold, the knuckles swollen and bleeding. There were splinters embedded in his palm, and the cuts along his fingers looked deep.
"Jesus, Ben," I whispered.
"It's not that bad."
"It's bad." I looked up at him. "Why didn't you stop? Why didn't you say something?"
He didn't answer.
I turned back to his hand and started cleaning the wounds with antiseptic wipes from the kit. He flinched when the alcohol hit the open cuts, but he didn't pull away.
The garage was quiet except for the hum of the heater and the sound of our breathing. I worked carefully, methodically, cleaning each cut, pulling out the splinters with tweezers, applying ointment to the worst of the damage.
His other hand was just as bad.
When I finished, I sat back on my heels and looked at him. He was watching me, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
"Why are you really doing this?" I asked.
He looked down at his hands—my hands still holding his—and shrugged.
"Couldn't let you carry it alone," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
But it landed differently than I expected.
I looked at his face in the dim light from the space heater. The exhaustion carved into the lines around his eyes. The stubborn set of his jaw. The way he was sitting perfectly still, letting me hold his broken hands.
This wasn't about Ryan. Wasn't about guilt or obligation. This was something else entirely. Something that made my chest tighten in a way I wasn't ready to name.
"You don't have to do this," I said quietly.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was small and tired, but real.
"I'm your business partner now," he said. "Pretty sure I have to."
"You know what I mean."
"I do." The grin faded, but his eyes didn't leave mine. "But I wanted to."
Wind rattled the plastic sheeting somewhere outside. I was still holding his hands, his skin warming slowly under my palms. I should let go. I should stand up, pack my things, get in my car and drive home before this moment became something I couldn't take back.
But I didn't move.
Neither did he.
His eyes dropped to my left hand—still cradling his—and I saw the exact moment he registered it.
The wedding ring.
Gold, simple, engraved on the inside with a date that felt like it belonged to a different life. I'd forgotten I was wearing it. Or maybe I'd just stopped noticing it, the way you stop noticing the hum of a refrigerator or the weight of a watch.
But he noticed.
His jaw tightened, and he pulled his hands back slowly, carefully, like he was removing them from a trap.
I let go.
"I should go," I said, standing up too quickly. My knees protested, stiff from kneeling on the cold concrete.
"Yeah." Ben stood too, slower, careful. "It's late."
I closed the first aid kit and shoved it back into the crate. My hands were shaking, but I kept them busy—folding the antiseptic wipes, capping the ointment, anything to avoid looking at him.
"Olivia."
I stopped.
"Thank you," he said. "For this." He held up his hands, the bandages I'd wrapped around his knuckles already spotted with blood seeping through.
I nodded. "You should ice them when you get home. And keep them clean."
"I will."
We stood there for another beat, as if unsure what to say next.
"See you tomorrow?" he asked.
"Seven sharp," I said.
His mouth quirked—almost a smile—then he picked up his toolbox and walked out into the dark.