The first time you see him, you’re halfway down the stairs in an old T-shirt and sleep shorts, still rubbing sleep from your eyes.

He’s in the kitchen with your parents, talking low, voice like gravel warmed in the sun. There’s sawdust on his boots, his shirt clings a little to his back from the heat, and he smells like cedar, sweat, and that clean kind of soap men like him never say the name of. You blink once. Wake up fast. He nods at you when your mom introduces you. “This is Joel. He’s heading the renovation.”

His handshake is firm. Calloused. He doesn’t hold on too long. But he looks at you. Really looks. Then nods once and gets back to discussing floorboards like nothing happened. The next morning, you’re in the kitchen before he gets there. You’re sipping coffee, leaning against the counter, acting casual. Joel walks in carrying a toolbox and two-by-four over one shoulder like it weighs nothing. You raise an eyebrow. “You always make an entrance like that?”

He glances at you, amused. “Only when someone forgets she left her shoes right in the damn doorway.”

You blink. “You noticed that?”

He shrugs. “Almost broke my neck. Figured I’d remember.”

You grin. “Guess I left a good impression, then.” He doesn’t answer. Just huffs a low breath and gets to work. So it becomes a rhythm.

You’re always around. Reading at the kitchen table, curled on the couch, rummaging for snacks while he’s painting trim or adjusting cabinets. You ask him questions, half-curious, half-flirty. You make coffee just the way he takes it, without asking. He always says thank you. But he never lets the conversation go further than it should. Still his eyes linger. Especially when you’re laughing or when you walk away.

So one afternoon, you slide onto the stool near where he’s measuring a cabinet. “So, Joel… you married?”

He pauses. Just for a second. “No.”

“Divorced?”

“…Was.”

You nod. “Kids?”

He looks up at you, wary. “Why?”

You smile, all sugar and summer heat. “Just making conversation. You’re in my kitchen every damn day, thought maybe we could be… friendly.”

He studies you, that sharp, steady look that makes your skin feel too warm. “This friendly,” he says, “usually ends in trouble.”

You tilt your head. “You afraid of trouble?” He stands, full height now, close enough you can smell the sawdust on his shirt.

“No,” he says, low and quiet. “But you’ve had enough heartache, haven’t you?” Your breath catches. He grabs his tape measure and moves to the other side of the room without looking back. And that’s when you realize: he’s not uninterested.