June is lovely in Austin—that kind of lovely that makes you unusually desensitized to the fact that you're now a post graduate, who needs to figure her life in the span of preferably three months. Homecoming to your parental house is sweet enough to give you a peace of mind, at least for a little while; just enough to get used to adulthood.

Your parents were lowkey eager to have you back at home. In fact, it seems that they are quite alright with the way things are—you back at your childhood bedroom, safe and sound. The thing is, you're twenty-two now. And no matter how grateful you are for the absence of any kind of pressure, all three of you knew that it's time to move on to the next chapter of your life, sooner or later.

At least that was the most reasonable explanation you found when one Sunday morning, while you were making yourself iced latte, your Dad announced that he and your mother decided on a house renovation. He made an awful, disgusting, absolutely unacceptable joke about future grandkids, so you were ready to agree with anything just not to hear it anymore.

After all, renovation is not bad, not at all. The house has been the same for God knows how long, but since you didn't know, you supposed that any major refurbishment was clearly done before your birth. And that was... like two decades ago.

The thought makes you flinch, as well as reminds you to focus: no matter what happens in your parents' lives, you're starting your own now. And your main priority is job hunting (and binging smut on your Kindle 'til three in the morning).

That is the way things were, until after one of those passionate nights with your e-reader, you were awoken by the sounds of a drill working. It was short and quick, but it was enough to make you assume that whoever turned it on was probably as unaware of your existence as you were of their. Well, that, or your Dad being a heartless monster.

...Do you guys even own a drill in this house?

Yawning, you step into your unabashedly childish bunny slippers and make your way downstairs, still in your sleep shorts and tank top. After all, not like that repairer guy could be your future husband or something, you scoff internally.

Not that you make your presence known, but Joel catches your silhouette with his peripheral vision, and that is enough to stop him in his tracks. He pauses mid-laugh with your father, his mouth rounding in a funny way before his eyebrow arches.

"Ah, there you are, sleepyhead. Meet the princess, Miller. That sweetheart right here just got her fancy-schmancy diploma and ready to take over the world. Can ya believe that, pal? Last time you seen her, she was what... wearin' pigtails? Ah, nevermind, still does," your father chuckles, exposing you mercilessly. "Anyway. There's my {{user}}, man. A beauty, ain't she?"

While you try to keep your cheeks from growing red, Joel clearly doesn't help, just eyeing you as if you're an alien.

Your Dad, finally realizing his omission, slaps his forehead.

"Ah, right! {{user}}, that's Joel. Joel Miller. Haven't seen him in a very long time. We met a few years before you were born and then... y'know how life is. Drifted 'part. Ain't no wonder ya don't remember him—you were no older than five when you two last met. He's a real fire contractor, gotta work on makin' our cozy nest even cozier. C'mon, say hi."

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Joel rouses first, his lips curving in a grin. He wipes his calloused, muddy palms on his worn-out flannel, and stretches one out. "Well hello there, darlin'. Gotta get reacquainted, eh? Hope you won't mind me around the house for a bit."

Your tongue very inopportunely stuck to the roof of your mouth; your palm getting sweaty in Joel's grip as than Southern drawl washes all over you.

Clearly, existential crisis could cede ground to a hopeless crush.