“So,” he says, tapping the book against his palm. His thumb worries at the spine. “I was thinking… one chapter every Wednesday. I’ll leave my curtains open so you know I’m not getting summaries off ChatGPT.”
A ghost of a smile lifts the corner of his mouth.
“If you want…” His gaze drops, then comes back up to mine. “You could read yours too. Same chapter. And we could… text about it. What you think. What I think.” He exhales nervously. “Or maybe we don’t,” he adds, softer, already backpedaling. “No pressure.” He scratches the back of his head. “I’m going to keep reading it either way. Turns out, your field is kind of fascinating. Even when it’s for dummies.”
I reach for the book, and my fingers brush the cover—and him. His hand is rougher than I remember. Warmer. Neither of us pulls away right away.
“Even if it’s for dummies?” I murmur.
“Especially if it’s for dummies.”
We stand there until a dog barks somewhere down the block. The air feels thick with something unspoken vibrating just below the surface. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He just turns and leaves, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants.
“Good night, Robyn.”
His voice is lower now. Careful.
“Good night.”
I turn toward my building, the book pressed to my chest. The pages smell faintly like him, his cologne still clinging to the edges of the cover. And as I climb the stairs, I realize I want to read this book with him. Because I need to understand how everything we built caved so quickly, and every step that led to it.
Maybe this could just be about two people under separate roofs, reading the same words on the same night—and choosing to leave the light on.
CHAPTER 26
The Line
Nate
With March hittingits halfway mark, we’ve landed in that sweet spot of cold days without the punishing snow. The change in weather’s good for both work and life. Settling into new habits at a place that still feels, in a lot of ways, foreign is also good. Like getting breakfast once a month for the on-site crew from Loam & Latte. Donuts and a box of joe won’t cut it, though, if the foreman doesn’t get the exact amount of foam, he goes on architect-vs-construction rants I have no patience for.
Lara, the barista and owner, spots me before I even reach the counter. She tips her head at me with a lopsided smile, graying hair twisted into a bun with a few curls tucked behind her ears.
“Morning, fancy pants,” she calls. “Let me guess—six breakfast sandwiches, three black coffees, one cardamom latte, and that matcha cappuccino I had to learn to make just for you?”
I huff out a breath. “Hater. It’s delicious.”
“Mm-hmm.” She’s already reaching for the to-go cups.
A thump hits the back door, then Zac walks in, broad-shouldered and carrying that annoyingly pleasant smile. He comes around the counter and claps my shoulder like we’re long-lost buddies.
“Were you guys talking about that green thing he likes?” Zac asks, leaning an elbow on the counter like he owns the place.
“Matcha is—” I start.
“Dude, if it’s green, it ain’t coffee,” Zac clips back, shrugging one shoulder and popping a mint into his mouth.
Lara snorts and wipes down the steam wand with a practiced flick.
“Please just get Derek’s coffee right. He’ll complain all day if I mess this up.”
Lara bumps the portafilter in hard, locking it with a twist. “A bit desperate for manly affection?”
I roll my eyes, shifting the warm bag of food.
“Hey, Nate,” Zac says, straightening as the machine hisses. “You guys working on that new gated complex on Hamby Road today?”
“Yeah.” I adjust my grip on the drink tray, keeping my expression flat. “Hoping to get the southern framing locked in before the winds pick up.”
