I give him a soft smile, teasing just enough to lighten the mood. “Well, don’t let it go to your head.”
He chuckles under his breath, a sound that hums low in my chest, while Bramble flops onto the grass between us with a heavy, satisfied sigh, tail thudding lazily against the ground.
I nudge the toe of his boot with the edge of my sneaker, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. “So,” I say, “what are you working on today? Or did you lure me out here just to emotionally disarm me with a golden hour and rescue dog?”
He grins. “You caught me. But since you’re here…” He tilts his head toward the barn. “You wanna help me sort through some of the stuff the previous owners left behind? A bunch of old furniture, some tools. I need to figure out what’s worth keeping and what’s firewood.”
“Sure,” I say.
He flashes me another grin and leads the way down the wornpath. He braces a shoulder against the heavy barn door and slides it open.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “Haven’t had much time to sort through it all yet.”
The space is cavernous, filled with the musty scent of old wood and forgotten things. Piles of furniture are stacked haphazardly—chairs with missing legs, a dresser with one drawer hanging crooked, an old brass bed frame leaning against the far wall. Tools hang from pegs above a workbench, handles worn smooth from years of use.
“Wow,” I breathe. “Previous owners really just…left all this?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding equal parts amused and overwhelmed. “Said they didn’t want to haul it. Told me to keep what I wanted, trash what I didn’t.” He glances around with his hands on his hips. “I figured it might be fun to dig through it together.”
I wander over to a wooden rocking chair tucked in the corner, running my fingers along the curved arm. The wood is smooth, worn in all the right places from years of someone else’s touch. It would be a shame to get rid of.
“This could be beautiful with a little work,” I say, tracing the delicate spindles along the back. “Just needs some sanding and refinishing.”
Rowan moves closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he examines it. “You think it’s worth saving?”
“Definitely.”
His expression softens, and I wonder if he can hear what I’m really saying. That broken things deserve second chances. That what’s weathered isn’t necessarily worthless.
“Well, if you think it’s worth saving, that’s good enough for me.” He shifts on his feet, then clears his throat before gesturing to the workbench. “I’m gonna start over there.”
He starts picking through the cluttered mess while I dig into the boxes, the air filling with the creak of old wood and the occasional clink of metal.
We don’t talk much, but we don’t need to.
It’s all little things, like the way he catches the corner of a box before it topples or when he hands me a rag as I’m brushing dust off my jeans without asking.
We move around each other like we’ve done it a hundred times before, because we have. This is the kind of coordination that can’t be taught. It’s just there.
I’m reaching into a half-collapsed box, and what I find causes me to burst out laughing.
“Oh my god,” I say, holding up a weathered wooden sign with chipped paint and faded red letters. “This says,‘No Trespassing. Violators Will Be Used As Target Practice.’ You think they were serious?”
Rowan glances over from where he’s bent over a drawer of rusted nails and crooked hinges. The corners of his mouth curve into a slow, easy smile that does dangerous things to my insides. “Considering the bucket of shotgun shells I found earlier?” he says, pushing a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, I’d say they weren’t kidding.”
I shake my head as I prop the sign against an old trunk. “Remind me not to wander onto your property uninvited.”
He straightens up, wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans, and looks at me across the dusty space.
“You’re always welcome here,” he says. “Day or night.”
My breath catches, stupidly, embarrassingly, and I’m suddenly very interested in the next box.
“Look at this,” Rowan says, peeling back the tarp to reveal an old record player. It’s solid, made from real wood.
I drift closer. “Think it works?”
“Only one way to find out. I saw a crate of records over there.” He nods toward a box half buried under old tarps and broken chair legs. “Grab one?”
