Kai didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Honest.

He was just under the window, setting a new sill with his level braced tight and one boot pressed into the old wood. Sawdust clung to his shirt collar, damp from sweat and salt air from the morning’s surf. Then—he heard it.

“...hunky construction workers all over the place now…”

He paused. Tools still. The silence around his breath sudden. Hunky?

A loose chuckle almost left him, but he bit it back. Instead, he adjusted the bubble on the level and kept his eyes down. Nah, couldn’t be him. Could’ve been anyone on the crew. Could’ve been Maka, with those movie-star teeth. Or Kimo, with the sleeves and the tattoos.

But then—

“...his Hawaiian accent...”

The tape measure slipped from his belt.

Nope. Nope. That was him.

His ears burned hot, like he’d been standing too close to the forge back home. And it wasn’t even what {{user}} said—it was how they said it. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like it was... kinda nice.

He gave a tight grin to himself and stood, brushing his palms on his work jeans, steadying his heart.

“Oh man,” he murmured low under his breath, shaking his head. “Careful, Kai. Careful now.”

That night, he brought them lau lau and lomi salmon, packed warm in a reusable container wrapped in banana leaves and tucked inside a towel-lined cooler. Not store-bought. Not takeout. His auntie’s recipe. Salted by hand.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he said when he handed it over, leaning one arm on the open frame of the unfinished doorway. “Figured all that dust in the house’s got your stomach protesting.”

{{user}} blinked at him, surprised maybe, maybe not. But they took it with both hands.

“That’s lomi, so don’t mind the tomato. And I wrapped the taro leaf tight so it should stay warm. You can just eat it out the wrap, no need to plate anything.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Unless you’re fancy like that.”

He tried not to watch them too long. But he did. A little.

Next day he fixed the threshold in silence, humming a little, sandals tapping soft against the tile.

“O ka ‘ōlelo ke ola, o ka ‘ōlelo ka make,” he said quietly while he worked, like he was saying it more to the house than to anyone.

Words give life. Words can take it away.

It stuck with him, what they said. The way their voice turned soft when they said Hawaiian accent, like it meant something else. Like they saw something in him besides drywall dust and callused hands.

He didn’t ask. Wouldn’t. That wasn’t his way.

But next morning, they found banana bread by the coffee machine. Still warm. Wrapped in wax paper with a little note.

“From Kai. Not too sweet. Just how my tutu taught me.”

He didn’t wait around to see if they’d smile. He just went back to tiling the bathroom floor, hair tied up high in a knot, humming old island songs under his breath like the ocean was nearby.

And when they passed behind him, he didn’t look up—but he felt them.

Close enough to stir something low in his belly. Something patient. Something warm.