Page 38 of Knot on the Market

I glance up from my notebook to find her standing on the front steps, holding a glass of water and what looks like a sandwich wrapped in a dish towel. She's changed since I arrived. Traded the jeans and t-shirt for a simple sundress that shows her legs. Hair pulled back so I can see her neck.

The domestic picture she makes, offering food, checking on progress, caring for someone, it hits me harder than it should.

"Foundation's compromised," I say, closing the notebook and accepting the water she offers. "Not just settling. Actual structural damage."

Our fingers brush as she hands me the glass, and I catch the small intake of breath she makes at the contact. Her scent flares slightly, not with the sharp spike of surprise, but with something warmer, more curious.

"Is that bad?" she asks, settling onto the front steps with careful grace, the skirt of her dress arranged to maintain modesty while still looking unconsciously inviting.

"Bad enough that we'll need to rebuild instead of repair," I say, drinking half the water in one go. It's cold and clean, refreshing after working in the heat. "But not bad enough that it can't be fixed properly."

"Rebuild." She tests the word like she's not sure what it means in this context. "That sounds expensive."

"It's thorough," I correct. "Sometimes starting over is the only way to make sure something will last."

The words hang between us with more weight than I intended, and Lila's gaze sharpens slightly, like she's heard the metaphor I didn't mean to make.

"I brought you lunch," she says, offering the wrapped sandwich. "I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I just... it's turkey and Swiss. With mustard. Nothing fancy."

The gesture catches me off guard in a way that's becoming familiar around Lila. Not because it's unexpected, but because of the care evident in the details. The sandwich is cut diagonally, wrapped properly to stay fresh. I can't remember the last time someone made me lunch. Maybe never.

"Thank you," I say, accepting the sandwich with more gravity than the moment probably warrants.

I unwrap it carefully, noting the quality of the bread, the generous portions of meat and cheese, the way she's added lettuce and tomato to make it a proper meal instead of just sustenance. When I take the first bite, the flavors are simple but well-balanced, good ingredients prepared with attention to detail.

"It's good," I tell her, and mean it.

Lila's smile is small but genuine, like my approval matters more than it should. "I'm still figuring out the whole... domestic thing. Cooking for other people, I mean. It's been a while."

There's a story in that admission, but I don't push for details. Instead, I take another bite and let the comfortable quiet settle between us. She stays on the steps while I eat, close enough that I catch her scent every time the breeze shifts, but not hovering or making conversation—just present. Like she's content to share space without needing to fill it with words.

The silence gives me time to notice things I probably shouldn't. The way she absently smooths her dress over her knees. How she tilts her face toward the sun like she's still getting used to having time for small pleasures. The fact thather scent has continued to evolve throughout our interaction, growing warmer, more settled, like my presence here isn't unwelcome.

Like maybe she's as affected by this quiet domesticity as I am.

"Can I ask you something?" she says eventually, her voice careful in a way that suggests the question matters.

I nod, finishing the sandwich and folding the dish towel with the same care she used to wrap it.

"When you rebuild something," she continues, "how do you know what parts are worth keeping?"

The question is about more than porch construction, and we both know it. I consider my answer while I drain the rest of the water, buying time to find words that will be honest without being presumptuous.

"You look for the bones," I say finally. "The foundation that's still solid. The framework that just needs better support." I gesture toward the porch structure underneath us. "This house has good bones. The problems are all surface-level or fixable. The core is worth saving."

Lila's gaze doesn't leave my face as I speak, and I can see her processing the words on multiple levels. When she nods, it's with the kind of understanding that goes deeper than construction metaphors.

"Good bones," she repeats quietly. "I like that."

I should get back to work. Should start organizing the lumber for Sunday's project, maybe take final measurements to confirm my material calculations. Should maintain the professional distance that's served me well for years, the boundaries that keep interactions simple and expectations clear.

Instead, I find myself studying the woman sitting on her front steps, noting the way afternoon light catches in her hair, how her scent has settled into something that speaks ofcontentment and possibility rather than the scattered energy she carried this morning.

Something protective settles in my chest that I don't entirely understand. Makes me want to check every window, every lock. Makes me want to stay here until I know nothing can hurt her. I've never felt anything like this before.

But instead of creating distance, the thought makes me want to show up Sunday and do the job right. Build her something that'll last.

"I should let you get back to work," she says, starting to rise from the steps.

---