Chapter 11
JOY
My building never impressed anyone.
That was the first thing I thought as we climbed the narrow staircase together, the smell of sugar and yeast drifting up from the bakery below. Warm. Comforting. Familiar. The kind of scent that wrapped itself around you whether you wanted it to or not.
He followed a step behind me, feet heavy against the old wood, his presence filling the stairwell in a way that made the space feel even smaller. Too close. Too intimate. My pulse ticked up with every step, and I told myself it was just nerves.
Just nerves.
“This is me,” I said when we reached the third floor, fumbling slightly with my keys.
The hallway was short, lined with doors that had probably been painted a dozen times over the decades. The lighting was soft but dim, like the building preferred not to draw attention to itself.
I unlocked the door and stepped aside. “Welcome to … well. Everything.”
He paused in the doorway.
I watched his expression carefully as he took it in.
The condo was small—one long rectangle, really—but it was mine.
White walls. Pale wood floors. Big windows at the front that looked out over the street and let in afternoon light.
The living room flowed straight into the kitchen, which flowed straight into everything else.
A sofa I’d found secondhand and reupholstered myself.
A small dining table with two mismatched chairs.
Plants everywhere—pothos trailing from shelves, a fiddle leaf fig in the corner that I talked to when it looked sad.
Nothing flashy. Nothing secret.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, the sound final in a way that made my stomach flip.
“It smells like bread,” he said.
“Bakery downstairs,” I replied. “Fresh every morning. It’s dangerous.”
Something about that earned me a faint smile.
He moved slowly, deliberately, like he was cataloging exits without meaning to. His gaze traveled from the sofa to the bookshelves to the flowers on the counter—flowers I’d brought home from the shop, wild and loose and very Charleston.
“This feels …” He stopped, searching for the word. “Warm.”
I blinked.
Warm wasn’t what people usually said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”
I set my bag down and kicked off my shoes. He followed suit, lining his boots up neatly by the door like they belonged there. The sight of that—of him treating my space with quiet respect—did something unexpected to my chest.
“Do you want a tour?” I asked, immediately wishing I’d phrased it differently. There wasn’t much to tour.
“I’d like that,” he said.
So, I showed him.
The kitchen first—small but functional, open shelves with neatly stacked plates, jars of flour and sugar from the bakery downstairs that the owner let me buy cheap. The living area. The tiny dining nook.
“And this,” I said, gesturing toward the far end of the condo, “is also my bedroom. Multifunctional.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Efficient.”
“That’s one word for it.”
I pushed open the door anyway. The room was soft—linen curtains, a low bed with a quilt my momma had made, framed photos on the walls. My family. The farm. Sunny the dog with his tongue hanging out.
He stopped just inside the doorway.
“This is nice,” he said.
I shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s enough.”
That seemed to land somewhere deep in him. His jaw tightened, just slightly.
We drifted back into the living room, the air between us charged in a way that felt new and fragile and dangerous all at once. I crossed to the kitchen and reached for the kettle, grateful for something to do with my hands.
“Coffee?” I asked. “I don’t have anything fancy.”
“Coffee’s perfect.”
I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then leaned back against the counter, watching him without meaning to. He stood by the window now, looking out at the street below like he was trying to memorize it.
Silence stretched.
It wasn’t awkward.
It was … thick.
“I wanted to explain something,” I said suddenly.
He turned, brows knitting slightly. “Okay.”
“When I said I was adopted,” I continued, my voice softer now, “I didn’t plan to say that.”
“I figured,” he said gently.
“I wasn’t trying to make it about me,” I added quickly. “I just—when you mentioned your mom, the way you did, I thought … maybe it would help. To know that families can still matter even when they aren’t what you expect.”
His expression shifted—something vulnerable flickering across his face before he locked it down again.
“My mom’s dead,” he said.
The words were flat. Controlled.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Long time ago.”
“That doesn’t make it smaller,” I said. “It just makes it older.”
He studied me for a moment, like he wasn’t used to people pushing back gently.
“I don’t know anything about my biological mom,” I went on. “Not her name. Not her face. Nothing. But my momma—the one who raised me—she’s everything. She and my dad couldn’t have kids, so they adopted me. Then Cassie. Then Mason. Then Bo and Lily. Five kids who weren’t supposed to happen.”
I smiled despite myself.
“They’re the best people I know,” I said. “They chose us. Every day.”
His gaze softened in a way that made my breath catch.
“You’re lucky,” he said.
“I know,” I replied. “I don’t take it for granted.”
The kettle whistled, breaking the moment. I turned it off and poured the water, grateful for the interruption. We sat on opposite ends of the sofa with our mugs between us, the space intentional and somehow unbearable.
“You’re very … positive,” he said after a moment.
I laughed softly. “Is that a nice way of saying naive?”
“No,” he said immediately. “It’s just different.”
“Different how?”
“I tend to expect the worst,” he admitted. “You seem to expect things to work out.”
“Someone has to,” I said. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”
He considered that, then shook his head like he didn’t have an answer.
The silence settled again—but this time, it felt electric.
He shifted on the sofa, his knee angling closer to mine. Not touching. Almost.
“There’s something else,” he said, his voice lower now.
My pulse kicked hard.
“Okay.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was bracing himself. “I don’t want you to think less of me.”
I swallowed. “I don’t.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“Try me.”
His gaze dropped to his coffee, then lifted back to my face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
The admission landed like a spark.
“After Dominion Hall,” he continued. “After the shop. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t usually … fixate.”
I nodded, afraid to speak.
“And,” he added, almost reluctantly, “I took care of myself. Thinking about you.”
Heat rushed through me so fast I had to grip my mug.
“Oh,” I said, brilliant as always.
He winced. “That’s exactly what I was afraid you’d say.”
“I didn’t mean it like—” I stopped, then started again. “I don’t think less of you.”
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I just … needed you to know.”
My body hummed with awareness, my skin suddenly too tight again.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you either,” I admitted.
His eyes darkened.
The space between us vanished—not physically, not yet—but the tension coiled tight, undeniable. His hand rested on the sofa cushion between us, close enough that I could feel the heat of it.
“Joy,” he said, my name heavy on his tongue.
“Yes?”
“I’m trying very hard not to touch you.”
My breath stuttered.
“Why?” I whispered.
“Because if I start,” he said, voice rough, “I don’t know that I’ll stop.”
Something inside me opened at that. Not fear, but recognition.
He leaned in, just slightly. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Close enough that the air between us felt charged, alive.
We didn’t kiss.
We didn’t touch.
But the moment stretched, taut and trembling, and I knew—deep in my bones—that it was only a matter of time.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to wait.
Then I laughed—soft, breathless, a little unsteady. “We should probably … actually talk,” I said, though my body clearly disagreed with that plan.
He huffed a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah. Probably.”
We both stayed exactly where we were.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said finally, the absurdity of that hitting me all at once. “Which feels … important, given everything you just told me.”
His mouth tilted slightly. Not quite a smile. “Micah.”
The name landed low and heavy in my chest. It fit him in a way that felt unfair.
“I’m Joy,” I said, even though he already knew that.
“I know,” he replied. And the way he said it—like my name already meant something to him—sent a shiver through me.
I wrapped both hands around my mug, though the coffee had gone lukewarm. “So,” I said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “What were you doing at Dominion Hall?”
His jaw tightened. Just a fraction. “Job. I think.”
I blinked. “You think?”
He shrugged. “It’s … complicated. I don’t fully understand it yet. Someone reached out. Made some things right that shouldn’t have been possible. I showed up to hear them out.”
“That tracks,” I murmured. “Nothing about that place feels accidental.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “It doesn’t.”
“And you?” he asked. “Flowers, obviously. But that wasn’t a small thing.”
I felt a flicker of pride cut through the tension. “Wedding. Montana. They’re flying them out.”
His head snapped up. “Montana?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Big one. Important family.”
Something unreadable passed through his eyes. “Huh.”
“Do you have a Montana connection?”
“Born there,” he confirmed. “Grew up there. Left when I could.”
I smiled softly. “Funny. I’m trying very hard to do right by a place I’ve never even been.”
“You will,” he said immediately. “I can tell.”
That certainty—that faith—did something to me. Made my throat tight.
Silence fell again, heavier this time. More intimate.
My gaze drifted to his hands. Big. Scarred. Resting loosely on his knees like they could do incredible damage—or incredible care.
Before I could stop myself, the words slipped out.
“I thought about you, too.”
His eyes lifted slowly. Locked onto mine.
“After,” I clarified, my face heating. “I couldn’t stop replaying it. The way you looked at me. The way you sounded.”
His breath hitched. Just barely.
“I … took care of myself,” I added, the confession trembling but honest. “Thinking about you.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Then his eyes darkened in a way that made my pulse skitter.
“Jesus,” he murmured.
“I didn’t plan to tell you that,” I said quickly. “I just—after what you said, it felt unfair not to be honest.”
His body shifted toward me. Not touching. Still not touching. But closer now. Enough that I could feel the heat of him.
“That doesn’t make me think less of you,” he said. “It makes this … harder.”
“Harder how?” I whispered.
“Because now I know I’m not the only one imagining things I shouldn’t.”
My breath came shallow. “What kinds of things?”
His gaze dropped—to my mouth, my throat—before dragging back up to my eyes.
“Things I don’t get to have,” he said quietly. “Things I’d ruin.”
Something in my chest flared—defiant, tender, brave. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His jaw flexed. “Joy—”
“I’m not fragile,” I said. “And I’m not confused. I know this feels fast. I know it’s intense. But pretending it’s not happening doesn’t make it go away.”
The room felt smaller. Warmer.
Micah leaned in again, stopping just short of touching me. So close that I could feel his breath, smell the faint trace of soap and something darker underneath.
“If I kiss you,” he said, voice low, controlled by sheer force of will, “it won’t be polite.”
My heart slammed.
“Then don’t be polite,” I whispered.
He froze.
The tension between us was unbearable now—bright and electric and alive. His hand lifted, hovering near my knee, not touching yet, like he was waiting for permission he didn’t trust himself to take.
I didn’t move away.
I didn’t tell him no.
And in that charged, breathless pause, I knew—with startling clarity—that whatever happened next would change me.
I wanted it to.