Chapter 1
Chapter One
Esteban
“?Puneta!” I yell the second the pain shoots up from my pinky finger.
I grab my left hand and squeeze it tight like that’s going to magically make the pain disappear. “Me cago en ná', carajo,” I mutter through gritted teeth, cursing everything around me.
It feels like I snapped the damn thing in half. The pounding in my finger is brutal—sharp, hot, relentless. I look up at the ceiling of my brand-new house, trying to breathe through it. Deep, even breaths. In. Out. Focus on anything but the pain.
But fuck, this hurts so damn bad.
My bedroom is empty, echoing with the kind of silence that makes you aware of every breath you take.
The walls are painted a soft, calming gray—at least that was the idea when I picked the color.
Right now, it feels like nothing helps. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, hitting the dark hardwood floors and bouncing off the clean surfaces.
The black ceiling fan spins lazily, like it has no idea I’m standing here about to lose a finger.
“Dude, are you okay?” Austin’s voice comes from the hallway, laced with concern and just a touch of amusement.
I let out a frustrated sigh, still gripping my hand like my life depends on it. “What do you think?” I mutter.
He steps into the room, eyebrows raised. “I heard you saying some pretty words in Spanish from the living room,” he says with a smirk. “Thank God I didn’t bring Adrian today—you would’ve expanded his vocabulary real fast.”
Adrian is his stepson and an incredible little dude. He stops when he sees my face, and then his eyes drop to my hand. “Is it bad?”
I loosen my grip slowly and lift my right hand away from the injured one, bracing myself. My pinky is already swollen and turning a nasty shade of purple.
“I don’t know, man. I was finishing the closet—installed all the shelves, everything—and I guess I slammed the door shut with my finger still in the damn way.”
Austin steps closer, inspecting it. “Dude… that doesn’t look good. You need to get that checked out. Could be fractured.” I stare at my finger and then I can feel my heart pounding on my finger. Austin whistles low under his breath. “Yeah, that looks like it hurts like hell.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I mutter, flexing my hand carefully. “It’s probably just bruised.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. That’s one of the reasons I’ve always appreciated Austin, he knows when to push and when to shut up.
He’s been one of my best friends since we were kids, along with Noah.
The three of us have been tight since elementary school, back when our biggest worries were homework and who got picked first for kickball.
Now we’re grown-ass men, still sticking together, just with more responsibilities, bad backs, and a lot more bills.
Austin crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “You know, if you’d stop working like a maniac, you probably wouldn’t be smashing your fingers.”
“I don’t have time to slow down,” I say, biting back another curse as a wave of pain rolls through my hand. “This is the last weekend I have to finish this damn place. I’ve been working seven days a week for months—job sites during the week, this place on weekends.”
Austin doesn’t say anything right away, just watches me with that quiet way of his. Always observing. Always calculating. That’s probably what makes him such a good architect, he sees shit most people overlook.
He’s the one who drew the plans for this house. My dream house.
I bought this plot of land a year ago, and from the minute I laid eyes on it, I knew exactly what I wanted to build.
A modern craftsman with clean lines, big windows, and room to breathe.
Something solid. Something mine. I’ve poured every spare second I’ve had into this place, and my friends—God bless them—have shown up every time I’ve asked.
Sometimes without me even having to ask.
Noah’s driving in now, bringing food from his fiancée’s coffee shop. Said something about sandwiches and iced lattes. The man knows how to bribe us.
Between the three of us, and a few of the guys from our crew, we’ve been busting our asses to get this place done. And now, it’s finally happening. One last push.
I walk over to the window and look out at the front yard where there’s still a few tools scattered around, and the porch needs a final coat of paint, but it’s mine. Every nail, every beam, every brushstroke—I’ve earned this.
“This place looks damn good,” Austin says, coming to stand beside me. “You should be proud of yourself.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat that I didn’t see coming. “I am.”
“You know,” he adds, smirking, “most people would’ve just hired a crew to do it all.”
“Yeah, well… most people don’t have control issues and a need to prove themselves,” I joke, and he laughs.
“True,” he says. “But seriously, Esteban, once this is done, take a damn break. You’ve earned one.”
I nod again, more to myself than to him.
Austin nudges me with his elbow. “Look who finally decided to show up.”
I follow his gaze out the window and chuckle when I spot Noah pulling up in his truck.
He parks a little crooked, hops out, and immediately starts struggling with a brown paper bag that’s way too full.
There’s another balanced precariously in the crook of his arm, and two drink carriers stacked on top of each other that look one wrong move away from disaster.
“Look at that,” I say, grinning. “Man’s out here risking his life for coffee and sandwiches. Someone give him a medal.”
Austin laughs, and I keep going. “You’d think with all that baby rocking he’s been doing lately, he’d have better balance.”
“Come on,” Austin says, already heading for the door. “Let’s go save his ass before he drops the iced coffee. That would be a crime.”
We jog down the stairs, and I push the front door open just in time to catch one of the drink trays slipping.
“Whoa, whoa, easy there. You’re not delivering a baby, you’re delivering lunch,” I say, grabbing the tray before it crashes to the ground.
Noah blows out a breath. “You’re hilarious.”
“I know,” I smirk, taking one of the bags from his arms. “And incredibly helpful. You’re welcome.”
“Appreciate it,” he says, shifting the weight of the other bag. “Josy made extra. Said you guys would be starving.”
I raise my eyebrows. “She’s not wrong. I’ve been surviving on protein bars and sawdust.”
We carry everything inside, spreading the food out on the makeshift table we set up in the kitchen. Noah pulls out three stacked containers, each labeled with our names in Josy’s handwriting.
My chest tightens a little. Not in a bad way, just... noticing. Noticing how much life has changed for my friends lately.
Austin’s got his wife Violet, his stepson, and their baby boy, Ethan—barely a month old and already stealing hearts left and right.
Their house? He designed it himself, of course.
Every corner of it looks like it belongs in one of those fancy architectural magazines he pretends he doesn’t read.
But more than that, it feels like home. You can tell the moment you walk in, from the smell of Violet’s candles to the toys scattered across the living room rug, that place is full of love.
Then there’s Noah. Man, that guy… he’s been through it.
Used to be the kind of guy who didn’t even know what he wanted out of life besides peace and quiet and a cold beer after work.
But then Josy walked back into his life like a damn hurricane, and everything changed.
Now he’s got her, and Everly, their baby girl with Josy’s eyes and Noah’s stubbornness.
She’s about six months old and already got him wrapped around her tiny fingers.
He swears he’s still in charge, but the rest of us know better.
They’ve both got these full lives. Wives, kids, homes. Purpose.
And me?
I’m the single guy with a half-finished sandwich in the fridge, a busted finger, and a dream house I’m building to share it with someone who doesn’t exist yet.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for them. Proud, even. We’ve all come a long way from those middle school idiots sneaking candy into class and playing pranks on our teachers. But lately, watching them settle down has got me thinking.
I’ve built my dream house. My business with Noah is thriving. The guys respect me. I’ve got good people in my corner.
And I’ve got the best damn parents anyone could ask for.
They moved to the States from Puerto Rico before I was born—barely had anything when they got here, but they built a life out of grit and love.
I grew up surrounded by both. They made sure I never missed out on anything.
Being an only child, I got all their attention, all their sacrifices, all their dreams poured into me.
And I’ve done everything I can to make them proud. I know I have.
But even with all that, this house, the business, my friends, my family, there’s still this piece missing.
That quiet something I don’t like to talk about.
The part of me that wonders what it’d be like to have someone waiting for me at the end of the day.
Someone who wants to build a life with me, not just share one that’s already made.
Someone who laughs at my dumb jokes, who’ll dance barefoot in the kitchen, who’ll give me a reason to want to leave work at a decent hour. A pretty girl I can fall head-over-ass in love with.
Maybe now that the house is done, I’ll finally have the time to look.
Maybe she’s out there somewhere.
And maybe she’s closer than I think.
One week. That’s all it’s been since I finished the house, but everything already feels different.
Today’s one of those cold, sunny days that make you want to sit by a window with a hot cup of café con leche and contemplate life—or at least question your life choices while your hands are freezing and you’re building furniture with your two best friends who are, apparently, more of a hazard than a help.
The house isn’t empty anymore. I finally got furniture for the living room and dining room delivered yesterday, and I’ve got my bedroom set up—thank God.
The other two bedrooms? Still bare. Not like anyone’s going to be staying over.
Unless Violet gets any more decorating ideas and decides she needs a guest room for "ambience. "
Speaking of Violet, she and Josy are currently judging every decorating decision I made or didn’t make. According to them, my house is “too plain,” “too masculine,” and “screaming for plants and throw pillows.” I told them the only thing screaming is me, on the inside.
Meanwhile, Austin, Noah, and I are upstairs trying to install my bed frame, and it’s going as well as you’d expect three grown men with zero patience and one tiny Allen wrench to go.
“Did you read the instructions?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I’m an architect, bro,” Austin replies, looking deeply offended.
“And I build houses for a living,” I add.
“Exactly. So why does this thing look like a modern art sculpture instead of a bed?” Noah grunts, holding up a side rail that we somehow attached upside down.
I look down at the diagram. Then at the bed. Then back at the diagram. “Because we put the headboard where the footboard goes.”
Austin squints. “Are we sure about that?”
“Unless I’m supposed to sleep with my feet higher than my head, yes.”
“Honestly,” Noah mutters, “at this point, just throw a mattress on the floor and call it ‘industrial minimalism.’”
By some miracle and a second set of instructions that Violet found in the box while giving us her best “useless men” look, we finally get the bed frame done. Barely.
Downstairs, Everly’s babbling in her playpen, Ethan is lounging in his bouncing chair like he pays rent, and Adrian’s sneaking pastries from the kitchen like he thinks no one’s watching. Classic.
Hearing the front door open, the smell hits first—like home, like Sunday dinners, like everything good in the world. My parents walk in, Mom carrying a big foil tray of arroz con gandules, and my dad trailing behind her with the pernil and potato salad like he’s protecting national treasures.
“?Llegamos!” my mom calls out, grinning ear to ear.
“Smells like heaven in here,” Violet says, already grabbing plates.
Josy beams at my mom. “Senora Lydia, that flan looks incredible.”
“Made it just for my nene,” my mom says, kissing my cheek like I’m still ten. I’m not mad about it.
Everyone finds a spot at the table, some sitting, some standing, Ethan moves happily and Everly clapping along to the noise. My dad clinks his glass filled with soda and raises it just a little.
“To my son,” he says, his voice thick with pride. “You’ve worked so hard for this. Your house is beautiful. But more than that, you’ve built a good life. One with people who love you. We’re proud of you.”
I nod, throat tight, heart full.
We dig in, laughter echoing off the new walls. The house finally feels alive.
And for the first time since I laid the foundation, I sit at my table, surrounded by my people, eating flan made by my mom, and thinking, Yeah. This—this is what I was building toward all along.
Smirking to myself, I lean back, rubbing my belly.
“Now all I need is a hot woman who can cook like my mom and put up with my shit. Should be easy to find, right?”
Everyone groans. Violet throws a napkin at me and Josy mutters something about delusional men. And my dad? He just laughs and says, “Suerte con eso, papito.”
I just grin, soaking it all in. Because for once, I don’t need to rush. I’ve got time.