Chapter 13 #2
Her teasing fades, and her expression softens. “I know,” she says. “I remember waking up and seeing you there. It was confusing, but… I know why you did it.”
Riot comes up the steps with the toolbox and sets it down with a heavy clunk. “We’ll have it fixed in a couple hours,” he says. “Stronger than before.”
“You said that last night,” she points out, but gratitude threads through the words. “Thank you. Seriously.”
I meet her eyes. “I’m not leaving it like this.”
For a second the air feels thick with everything we’re not saying. Then I shake it off and crouch by the frame.
“Alright,” I say, flexing my hands. “Let’s undo my bad decisions.”
We fall into a rhythm once we start. Riot braces what’s left of the busted frame while I work the pry bar under the splintered wood, and the crack of it ripping free echoes off the porch.
The door’s propped wide open beside us, hanging useless while we tear the frame apart.
Sawdust sticks to my hands and the air smells like fresh cut lumber and old paint baking in the sun.
A few minutes in, her voice drifts out from inside the house.
“You guys need anything?”
I glance up. She’s standing a few feet back in the entryway, careful to stay clear of the mess, one hand resting on the wall as she looks past the open door at us.
“We’re good,” I tell her. “Got everything we need.”
Riot nods without looking up. “All set.”
She lingers a second like she’s debating stepping closer, and then she gives a small nod and disappears back into the house. We go right back to it. Hammer. Measure. Adjust. The steady rhythm fills the porch.
A little while later she reappears, weaving carefully around the tools with three cold bottles of water tucked in her arms. Condensation beads on the plastic.
“It’s hot out here,” she says, holding them out.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I mutter, taking one and twisting the cap. Riot gives her a quiet thanks and grabs another.
Instead of going back inside, she settles just past the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the wall where she’s out of our way.
She doesn’t talk. She just watches. Her eyes track every movement, from Riot holding the new frame steady to my hands lining it up and driving the screws in.
It’s quiet but not awkward. It feels calm. Grounded.
Every time I glance up, she’s still there, sipping her water and studying the work like she’s making sure it’s real and solid and actually getting fixed. Sunlight spills in across the floor and catches in her hair, and when our eyes meet her mouth curves a little.
The new frame slides into place clean and tight. Riot gives it a hard shove to test it, and it doesn’t budge.
“That’s not going anywhere,” he says.
I look at her. She’s still leaning in the doorway, water bottle dangling from her fingers, watching like she’s been there the whole time. And maybe she has.
“I’m making dinner,” she says from the doorway, like she just decided it and that’s the end of it. Her gaze shifts to Riot. “And you’re staying too.”
Riot doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes ma’am,” he says, and there’s a hint of a grin in it.
I glance at him. “You get invited to one meal and you’re already settling in.”
He shrugs. “I go where the food is.”
She shakes her head, smiling, and disappears back into the house while we finish the job.
We square the new frame and anchor it deep, sinking the bolts until the steel sits flush and solid.
Then we haul the new door into place. It’s heavy, reinforced steel with a clean matte finish and a fingerprint lock already mounted.
Riot holds it steady while I set the hinges and drive the pins. The door swings smooth on the first test, solid and quiet. I step back and admire it for a second.
“Alright,” I call into the house. “Firecracker, I need you out here.”
Her footsteps pad across the floor and she appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “That was fast.”
“Come here,” I tell her, nodding to the lock. “Gotta teach your door who you are.”
She steps onto the porch and looks at the keypad. “That’s fancy.”
“It’s secure,” Riot says. He pulls his phone out and starts tapping. “And it comes with an app.”
I guide her through it, showing her where to press. She sets her finger on the sensor, and the lock beeps soft and green.
“Again,” I say. “It needs a couple reads.”
She laughs under her breath but does it, and the system chirps its approval. Riot steps in beside her and installs the app on her phone, walking her through notifications and settings while she watches the screen with a little crease between her brows.
While they’re focused on that, I add my fingerprint quick and quiet. The lock accepts it without complaint. She doesn’t notice. Riot doesn’t say a word. I don’t plan on needing it, but I’m not kicking in another door. And I’m sure as hell not climbing through a window.
“All set,” Riot says, handing her phone back.
She looks between us and then at the door. “It’s… really nice. Thank you. Both of you.”
I shrug like it’s nothing, even though something warm settles in my chest. “Try it.”
She steps inside and pulls the door closed. A second later it clicks open again at her touch. Her smile is bright and a little proud.
“It works,” she says.
“Good,” I reply. “That was the goal.”
We pack up the tools and carry everything back to the truck. Once it’s loaded, we head inside to wash up. I scrub the sawdust and grime from my hands in her bathroom sink, cool water running over my skin. When I step back into the hallway, the smell hits me.
Rich and savory and warm.
My stomach growls loud enough that Riot hears it and snorts.
“It smells like heaven in here,” I mutter.
The kitchen is full of steam and comfort. A pot roast sits carved and tender on a platter, mashed potatoes piled high in a bowl, corn glistening with butter, and gravy in a warm dish beside fresh rolls.
She glances over her shoulder at us. “Perfect timing,” she says. “Dinner’s ready.”
And just like that, the house feels less like a work site and more like something dangerously close to home.
By the time the dishes are done and the counters are wiped down, the kitchen looks like we were never there. I dry the last plate and slide it into the cabinet while she rinses her hands. Water runs, then shuts off, and the house settles into that quiet that only comes after a long day.
Riot’s boots thud softly down the hallway as he makes another pass through the house. He’s been doing that for the last ten minutes, checking locks and windows and sight lines like it’s second nature.
“Everything’s solid,” he calls. “You’ve got good bones here. I can give you a list of upgrades later if you want. Cameras. Reinforced latches. Nothing crazy.”
“I’d like that,” she says, glancing toward the hall. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he replies, and I hear the front door open and close as he steps out onto the porch to take a call, giving us space without making a thing out of it.
The kitchen feels smaller without him in it. Warmer. She turns back to the counter and reaches for the towel, and when she does I step in close without really thinking about it. My hands land on either side of her, caging her in against the counter. She stills.
Her breath catches, and her eyes lift to mine.
There’s a question there. And something else. Something that’s been simmering all night.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I am.”
My gaze drops to her mouth and then comes back up. I give her a second to move, to tell me no. She doesn’t. If anything, she leans into the counter like she’s bracing for impact.
So I close the distance.
I lean down and kiss her, and it’s soft at first. Careful. Her lips are warm and a little tentative under mine, and then she exhales and melts into it. Her hands come up, one curling lightly into the front of my shirt, and the kiss deepens without either of us pushing it too far.
The world narrows to the press of her mouth and the quiet sound she makes in the back of her throat. My thumb brushes her jaw, and her skin is warm under my touch.
When I pull back, it’s only an inch. Her forehead almost rests against mine. Her eyes are dark and searching.
“Lucky,” she whispers, like my name weighs something now.
I don’t trust my voice for a second, so I just look at her, memorizing the way she fits in the space between my arms. Outside, a car passes and Riot’s voice drifts faintly from the porch, grounding the moment in reality.
But in the kitchen, with her breath still warm against my lips, everything feels suspended.
I force myself to pull back another inch, even though every instinct in me says stay right where I am. My hands are still braced on the counter on either side of her, and she’s looking at me like the kiss knocked the air out of both of us.
“I gotta get Riot back to his bike,” I say quietly. The words feel rough coming out. “And you need to get some sleep. You’ve got work in the morning.”
Reality settles between us, soft but unavoidable.
She nods, and there’s a slow smile spreading across her mouth. It’s warm and a little shy and it hits me square in the chest. “Yeah,” she says. “You’re probably right.”
I brush my thumb once along her jaw before I step back, giving her space even though I don’t really want to. “I’ll text you when I get home.”
“Okay,” she says, and her fingers curl lightly around the edge of the counter like she’s grounding herself. Then her gaze lifts to mine. “Thank you again. For everything.”
There’s weight behind it. The door. Dinner. The nightmare. The kiss. All of it wrapped up in two simple words.
“You don’t gotta thank me,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says softly. “I still want to.”
I huff a quiet breath and shake my head, but I’m smiling. “Get some sleep, firecracker.”
She walks us to the door, and when she presses her finger to the lock it clicks open smooth and easy. I step out onto the porch and Riot looks up from where he’s leaning against the railing.
“We good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, glancing back at her one last time. She’s standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, watching us with that same soft smile.
“Drive safe,” she says.
“Always,” I reply.
The door closes behind us with a solid, satisfying thunk, and I listen to the lock engage. Strong. Secure. I head down the steps with Riot at my side, but my mind is still in that kitchen, replaying the feel of her lips and the way she said my name.