Page 80 of Your Place or Mine

That I didn’t just see her as a threat to my world.

That I saw her as someoneinit.

I stood, pulled on a hoodie, and started pacing as the old hardwood creaked under my feet like it knew I was about to do something wildly uncomfortable and out of character.

What did I have to offer a woman like Lydia?

She had vision, drive, a spine of steel, and a heart big enough to carry grief and hope simultaneously.

And me?

I had a bar, a bad temper, and a track record of locking people out the second things got too close.

But I also had hands that could fix things. A brain wired for details. A stubborn streak wide enough to rival hers. I wasn’t poetic, and I wasn’t charming, but I couldshow up.

And maybe… that was a start.

I walked into my garage and stared at the shelves.

The shelves I’d been ignoring for a year were still stacked with tools. Paintbrushes. Sandpaper. A level. An old work light. Stuff I hadn’t used since patched up the bar's back hallway. I had some extra outlets and wiring supplies.

I grabbed the light and a toolbox before I could overthink it.

If she wanted to restore the building? If she wanted to fix things and make them shine again?

Then maybe I could help her do that.

Withher.

Not against her.

Not out of guilt.

But because it mattered to her, and that made it matter to me.

And if she slammed the door in my face?

Well, I deserve it.

But I wouldn’t let this whole thing unravel without at least trying.

Because the truth was… I didn’t want to return to how things were before Lydia came to Reckless River.

Back when the bar was my whole world.

Back when silence didn’t feel like punishment.

Back when I didn’tknowwhat it felt like to be wanted by a woman who saw right through my rough edges and reached for me anyway.

I wasn’t ready to let her go.

And if I had to prove myself one light fixture, one hallway, one small act of effort at a time, so be it.

I loaded the gear into the truck, the cold night air biting against my skin, and pointed myself toward town and Lydia’s building. The drive was quick, and the streets were quiet as I parked near the tenant lot, where a few tired porch lights flickered and the stairs creaked under my boots. I didn’t go to her apartment. Not yet. That wasn’t what this was.

Not about words.

About doing.

---