And then, slowly, I stopped noticing the echo.
I shifted the drink carrier to my other hand and pushed open the door with my hip.
The bell Finn had installed above it gave one bright, cheerful chime.
“I come bearing caffeine and legally approved paperwork,” I called.
“Two of my favorite things,” Finn called from the back of the studio.
I smiled before I saw him.
It was becoming a familiar reflex, smiling at the sound of his voice.
He appeared from behind the half wall separating the front workspace from the conference area, sleeves pushed up, dark hair slightly messy, pencil tucked behind one ear.
A year ago, I would have told myself not to love the sight of him too much.
I would have searched for the catch. The cost. The part where wanting him made me foolish.
Now I just let myself look.
Finn in my studio, surrounded by samples and sketches and sawdust from the built-in shelving he’d insisted was “a simple weekend project” three weekends ago.
Finn, who had never once asked me to shrink so he could feel larger.
Finn, who made room.
Not because I demanded it.
Because he believed I belonged there.
He took the drink carrier from my hand and kissed me once, soft and easy, like we had nowhere else to be.
“You got the permits?”
I lifted the roll under my arm. “Approved.”
His grin came slow and devastating. “Holland Hart, historic theater savior.”
“Let’s see if I can save it first.”
“It’s incredibly weird.”
“Finn.”
“You have a hard hat with your name on it.”
“That was your Christmas gift to me.”
“And it was an excellent gift.”
“It has glitter on it.”
“Subtle glitter.”
“There’s no such thing as subtle glitter.”
He took the permits from me and set them on the drafting table with the quiet care of someone handling a fragile, important thing.
