I grab my keys before that thought can settle any deeper and head out. Holt’s truck is gone because I’m the last thing he should be thinking about while he’s working. He has enough on his plate. Which means:
Risk.
Absence.
Uncertainty.
I don’t like that. And I especially don’t like that I care.
There’s a mug left by the sink I don’t remember setting out. Darker coffee ring along the inside. Still faintly warm if I let myself check. He must’ve left it there on his way out.
The detail shouldn’t matter, but it does. Because it means he was here—moving through the same space—thinking about something else entirely while I was still upstairs trying not to think about him.
I rinse it before I can stop myself, set it beside the others like it doesn’t belong to something different, then head out of the house as quickly as my feet can carry me. I need something to keep my mind occupied.
The inn is quiet when I arrive. Dust hangs in the air, catching in the morning light as it did yesterday, but there’s something else now, too—a sense of progress layered beneath the damage, like the place is starting to remember what it used to be.
I set my bag down, already reaching for the notebook in my hand, mentally running through what needs to get done, then I stop. There’s a coffee sitting on the counter. Not just any coffee but one with my name scribbled along the plastic. The exact order I’ve only mentioned once. Half distracted. Not expecting anyone to remember.
I cross the room slowly, like it might disappear if I move too fast. It’s still warm when I pick it up. No note. No explanation. No one waiting to take credit.
Heat curls low beneath my ribs anyway, sharp enough to steal my breath for a second. Because I know this was Holt. I can feel it in the restless flutter moving through me, my body recognizing his care before I even let myself process it. Nolan is already there. Again. I don’t comment on it this time.
“Morning,” he says without looking up from the plans spread across the front table.
“Morning.”
I set my bag down and move into the space, pretending I haven’t spent the past twelve hours trying not to think about someone else entirely.
“What’s first?” I ask.
“Subfloor in the back hall,” he says. “Then we can start mapping electrical.”
I nod.
Work helps. It always does. We fall into it quickly, moving through the space in a rhythm that should feel familiar and easy. It doesn’t. Not the way it used to.
Nolan explains something about load-bearing support. I miss half of it. My brain keeps slipping back to the barn, back tothe kitchen, back to the way Holt looked at me when he said he wasn’t going to pretend anymore.
“You’re not listening,” Nolan says.
I blink, trying to refocus.
“I am.”
“You’re not.” His tone isn’t cruel. If anything, that makes it worse. It’s the same tone he used after my father died, when everyone else spoke to me like I was breakable and Nolan acted like if he stayed practical enough, I might not fall apart.
“Repeat it,” I say.
He studies me for a second, longer than necessary, then does. No lecture. No smugness. Just the information again, slower this time.
I follow this time because, as I keep reminding myself, this is why I’m here. Not—whatever else is trying to take up space in my head.
By midday, the air inside the inn is thick again. I push my hair back and step away from the wall, wiping my hands on my jeans.
“We’re making progress,” Nolan says.
“We are.”
