34. Drew
DREW
I stand inside the house I’ll soon be living in, feeling a bit… overwhelmed.
Sure, I'd owned a house before.
But it was brand new.
I never had to repair anything. I hired people for that.
But this time, I didn’t.
I wanted it that way. Wanted to fix it up myself.
Or so I thought.
And this… well, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Something I thought would occupy my mind so I’d stop thinking about Violet.
And being a co-parent of Luna.
And dinner with her and my family.
Yeah. Not working.
Stop it.
Get your ass to work.
I’m not sure where to begin, but there’s a spot that doesn’t need repairs where I want to hang the wooden mail and key holder Ivy gave me.
She said it was a better housewarming gift than flowers or whatever people usually give.
I have no idea what those things are, but I love practical. So it’s perfect.
“This shouldn’t be hard. I’ll just put a nail in the wall and hang it,” I say aloud to absolutely no one.
Five minutes later, I’m questioning my sanity.
I stare at the wall.
Then at the hammer in my hand.
Then back at the wall.
“This shouldn’t be this hard,” I mutter.
It’s a nail.
A simple nail.
People do this every day.
I position it carefully.
Lift the hammer.
And—
THWACK.
Pain explodes through my thumb.
“F—” I suck in a breath, dropping the hammer as I grab my hand. “Are you kidding me?”
I shake it out, pacing in a tight circle like that’s going to help.
It does not.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter. “It’s a nail.”
I glare at the wall like it personally offended me.
I try again because I’m not losing to drywall.
No way.
THWACK.
“Son of a—”
The hammer clatters to the floor.
Again.
I press my forehead to the wall, eyes closed.
“Get it together,” I mutter. “You’re a grown man.”
A grown man who can't hammer a nail.
Fantastic.
I straighten, flexing my throbbing thumb, and reach for the hammer again—
A knock sounds at the door.
Then the panic begins.
“Please don’t let that be my brother. Or Ivy,” I mutter. “I can’t handle their judgment right now.”
I cross the room, pulling the door open—
And freeze.
Violet stands there, a smile on her face. A bag over her shoulder and a white plastic bag in her hand.
“I thought you might need help,” she says calmly.
I stare at her.
“How did you know I was here?”
She shrugs. “I had a meeting. Happened to drive past and saw your car.”
I stare at her… then down at her jeans and t-shirt.
She’s not dressed for a meeting.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
Right?
I glance down at my ratty old sweatpants and faded T-shirt. I’m not dressed for company. I thought I was going to be alone.
Her smile is patient. “Can I come in? To help you.”
“Help,” I parrot. “With what?”
I feel like an idiot.
She glances past me into the house. At the hammer on the floor. At the crooked nail barely hanging from the wall.
Her lips twitch.
“Everything,” she says.
I exhale, stepping back to let her in. “Yeah. That tracks.”
She steps inside, pausing just past the doorway.
Her gaze moves slowly across the room. “Wow,” she says. “It has potential.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
She sets the bags down.
"What’s all this?"
"Things you need." She smiles at me. “Give me a tour?”
I hesitate… then nod. “Yeah. Sure.”
I walk her through the house, pointing things out as we go.
The kitchen.
The hallway.
The bedrooms.
She listens, nods, and asks a few questions.
When we make our way back to the living room, she crouches and opens the bags, pulling out spackle, a putty knife, a level, a tape measure, and a toolkit.
“I figured you might not have some of this,” she says. “They’re necessities.”
I blink. “I was going to get those things.”
“When?”
“…Eventually.”
She hums softly.
I gesture toward the cleaning supplies leaning against the wall. Then at the hammer on the floor.
“I brought a few things,” I say defensively.
She doesn’t seem impressed.
“I have a hammer and nails.”
Her lips twitch.
Yeah, it’s not enough.
I sound pathetic.
I glance down at the stuff she unloaded from the bag.
“This is—” I gesture vaguely. “A lot.”
“It’s necessary,” she replies, straightening.
She looks at the bent nail I’ve unsuccessfully pounded into the wall. At my swollen, bruised thumb.
Her gaze flicks back to me. “You’re doing that wrong.”
I scoff. “I gathered that.”
She steps closer.
I breathe her in, holding her jasmine scent in my lungs.
“Give me the hammer.”
I hesitate… then hand it over.
She takes the nail between her fingers, positions it properly, and drives it in with two clean hits.
Done.
Then she places the item on the nail, making sure it’s centered.
I stare at it.
It’s… perfect.
“Are you a repair person?” I mutter.
She raises her brows. “Really?”
She hands the hammer back, her warm, soft fingers brushing mine.
“No.” I clear my throat, stepping back. “But I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“I noticed.” She smirks. “Come here.”
It’s not a request.
I listen.
Because apparently that’s something I do now.
She dips the putty knife into the spackling, then gestures toward the wall with all the tiny holes that need patching.
“Watch.”
She smooths it over the dent I made earlier, even and clean. Effortless.
Then she steps closer and hands me the knife. “Now you try it.”
I swallow hard.
I try to imitate what she did… but it doesn’t look like her masterpiece at all. More like an artist versus a child.
“It looks awful.”
“It’s fine,” she says, stepping behind me.
Her hand closes over mine, guiding it across the wall.
My breath catches.
“Less pressure,” she murmurs, her voice beside my ear. “Let me guide you.” Her warm breath tickles my skin. “Like this.”
Her fingers adjust mine on the handle.
I swallow hard, trying to focus on literally anything else. The wall. The spackle.
I can’t breathe.
“Better,” she says softly.
She releases my hand and steps back.
The loss of contact is immediate. Noticeable.
The space between us feels… wrong.
She moves past me, heading to the supplies before glancing around the room again. Not aimless or curious, but measured, like she’s taking inventory.
Her gaze drifts to the front window, and her brow furrows. “Did you clean that?” she asks.
I follow her line of sight.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Why?”
She shrugs, already turning back toward the wall. “It looks clean in that spot.”
I frown slightly. “You noticed that?”
She shrugs. “I notice things.”
She says it so casually.
Something about it settles uneasily in my chest.
I study her for a second longer.
She looks normal. Unbothered.
I’m reading too much into it.
“Right,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “Of course you do.”
Because that tracks. Everything about her feels like she’s already three steps ahead of me.
And I don’t know if I like that.
I glance back at the window.
I wiped the heart off when I saw Ivy looking at it suspiciously. I didn’t know how it got there or who did it. I just assumed the previous owner did it.
But now… I wonder.
“Do you have a lawn mower?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
I clear my throat. “No.”
Her brow lifts slightly.
“I wasn’t sure what to get,” I add quickly. My tone is slightly defensive.
She studies me for a second, then pulls out her phone. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You don’t have to—”
She’s already dialing, then presses the phone to her ear.
“Hi,” she says when someone answers. “Can you send someone over?” She rattles off my address. “The yard needs to be cleaned up.”
I blink. “Violet—”
She glances at me. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, like this was always going to happen.
And somehow… I believe her.
An hour later, there are people in my yard.
Actual professionals.
With equipment.
Mowing, trimming bushes, pulling weeds.
I stand in the doorway, watching.
“What is happening?” I mutter.
“They’re helping.”
I glance over my shoulder.
Violet’s kneeling on the floor, scrubbing the wall.
My mouth goes dry.
It feels like she’s always belonged here.
A strange thought settles in my chest.
She gives me what I need before I even realize I need it.
That should bother me more than it does.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her. “You don’t have to do all this.”
She looks up at me. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
Something about that hits harder than it should.
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
For the first time in my life, I realize I have help.
Even crazier, she seems to enjoy it.
Maybe I don’t need to do it alone.
Not anymore.