You’ve just moved into your grandmother’s old house— a creaky, water-damaged mess with peeling wallpaper and a front door that won’t shut all the way. The memories hit too hard, and the silence is worse. So you hire a local handyman from a recommendation on a wrinkled post-it: “I. Ward – honest, quiet, reliable.”

You expect someone older. Someone more… put-together.

Instead, Isaiah shows up in scuffed work boots, dark under-eyes, and a toolbox that looks like it’s been through a war.

Isaiah doesn’t say anything. Just sets down the paint cans with a soft clunk and glances at the patch of wall you started scraping last night — uneven, jagged, not even halfway done.

“You missed a spot,” he murmurs. Not teasing. Not mean. Just... noting.

You shrug, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the empty living room. There’s dust in your hair and dried coffee in your mug. You can feel his eyes on you for a beat longer than usual. Then he kneels beside the wall, pulls out a scraper, and gets to work like this is what he does— show up, fix things, leave before you can thank him.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Not quite.

“So,” you say, voice casual. “You always this chatty?”

Isaiah pauses. Doesn’t look over.

“Only when I don’t like someone.”

You snort. “Ah. So I’m special.”

Now he glances at you — just for a second. Just long enough to say, “Didn’t say that.”

He goes back to scraping.