Page 28 of Working for Him

I'm walking the eastern section, confirming the reinforced supports are solid, when Caleb finds me. "You're here early."

"Couldn't sleep. Keep thinking about everything that could still go wrong."

"Nothing's going wrong. We did the work. We built it right. Now we get to finish it."

We're heading toward the trailer when Lila's city vehicle pulls up. When she gets out she has aa folder under her arm that makes my stomach clench.

"The council approved a contract extension through project completion," she says, barely containing her excitement, "plus they're recommending you for two additional municipal projects. You're officially Forge Creek's preferred safety consultant for infrastructure work."

I stare at the contracts spread across the desk a few minutes later. Extension through completion. Bridge infrastructure assessment for the county. Water treatment facility expansion. A year's worth of work, minimum.

"This is a lot," I say, voice slightly strangled.

"It's a lot of opportunity," Lila corrects.

After she leaves, I sit there staring at the paperwork, feeling commitment deep in my bones. This isn't temporary anymore. This is a career. Roots. A future that extends beyond the next contract.

Caleb finds me an hour later, still in the same position. "You okay?"

"I signed the extension. And accepted the additional projects. And I'm having a minor existential crisis about what that means."

He pulls up a chair. "Talk to me."

"I've spent my entire adult life keeping everything temporary," I say, trying to articulate something I don't fully understand myself. "Jobs, apartments, relationships, all of it portable, designed to let me leave when things got hard or too real. And now I'm signing year-long contracts and building a life that requires me to stay even when it's difficult."

"And that terrifies you?"

"It does. But it also feels right in a way nothing else has. It’s like I've been running from the thing I actually needed without realizing it."

"Community," he suggests. "Stability. People who know you and choose you anyway."

"You," I correct. "I was running from you. From everything you represent about commitment and choosing to stay even when leaving would be easier."

"But you didn't run."

"I tried. Multiple times. You just kept showing up and making it impossible to leave without feeling like I was giving up something irreplaceable."

"I'm still terrified I'm going to screw it up," I admit. "That I'll panic six months from now and sabotage everything because that's what I do when things get too stable."

"Then we'll handle it," he says. "Together. But Rena? You're not the same person who showed up here six months ago ready to run at the first sign of difficulty. Give yourself credit for that."

I press my face against his shoulder, letting him see the fear I usually hide behind competence. "I don't know how to be this person. The one who stays."

"Then we figure it out together. One decision at a time. One moment of choosing each other at a time."

"I love you," I mumble into his shirt. "Even though you make everything complicated by being supportive and patient and refusing to let me self-destruct in peace."

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I love you too. Even though you make everything complicated by overthinking and refusing to accept good things when they happen."

"We're a mess," I observe.

"We're figuring it out," he corrects. "There's a difference."

That night, we celebrate with takeout and wine, and an intimacy that comes from knowing you have time. This is home. Not the place. The person. The partnership. The choice to keep choosing even when it's scary.

I'm staying. I'm building. I'm choosing permanence over safety.

It's terrifying and exhilarating, and it's exactly what I need.