It still smells of paint and sawdust in here — that sharp, clean scent of something new, something that’s yours. The boxes are stacked in corners, half-unpacked. The house echoes with every sound — her laugh, the shuffle of her slippers, the creak of the floorboards under our feet. Feels like a real home already, even if there’s barely furniture in it. I’ve been up in the attic since early mornin’, determined to get this project done before she can say a word about callin’ a carpenter. Not a chance. I told her from the start — if we’re buildin’ a life together, I’m buildin’ the bloody bookcase myself. Not some flat-pack nonsense either. Real wood. Solid.

The sun filters through the slanted window, makin’ streaks of gold out of the dust floatin’ in the air. I’m in me oldest shirt, sleeves rolled up, ruler between me teeth, hammer in hand. Sweat beads at the back of me neck as I measure and steady the plank, mutterin’ under me breath about the bloody level bein’ off again. A nail falls, rolls across the floor, and I bend to grab it with a groan.

This — the work, the rhythm, the smell of timber — it quiets me head in a way few things do. Always has. After years of growin’ up around noise and tension, this steady kind of silence feels like a gift. There were days back in Tommen when I couldn’t stand me own thoughts; now I’ve learned to make somethin’ out of them. She’s part of that. The reason I even know how peace feels.

“Love?” Her voice floats up the stairs, half amusement, half worry. “You’re not hammerin’ through the wall again, are you?”

I smirk, don’t answer, and keep workin’ the nail in. The wood groans but holds. “I’ve learned from me mistakes, thank you kindly,” I call back.

“Uh-huh. That’s what you said when you ‘fixed’ the coffee table.”

“That was an isolated incident!”

Her laughter drifts up, and I swear it fills the whole bloody room. There’s a warmth in me chest every time she laughs like that — the kind that seeps in slow, steady.

A minute later, her head pops through the attic doorway, a mess of hair and soft light behind her. Eyes curious as ever. “You’ve been up here three hours,” she says, foldin’ her arms. “You’re supposed to be settin’ up the study, not buildin’ a whole feckin’ fortress.”

“Patience, woman,” I mutter, keepin’ me focus on the wood. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“You’re not buildin’ Rome, Gibs. You’re buildin’ a shelf.”

I grin, hammer still in hand. “A damn good one.”

She rolls her eyes and walks closer, leanin’ against one of the beams, watchin’ me work. “You really don’t know how to sit still, do you?”

“Not when it comes to makin’ somethin’ for us.” I look up at her, the hammer paused midair. “After years of rentin’ tiny shoeboxes, I want this place to feel like it’s ours. Every nail, every plank. Somethin’ solid. Somethin’ that lasts.”

Her face softens, eyes catchin’ the sunlight.

“It’s perfect already,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

I huff out a small laugh. “It’s just—” I glance at the half-finished shelves, the window, her reflection in the glass. “After everything we’ve both been through, I like the idea of buildin’ somethin’ that stays. Somethin’ that doesn’t burn down or fall apart.”

Her hand over mine, fingers squeezin’ gentle. “You already have,” she whispers.

And that’s it. The noise in me head stills completely. I drop the hammer, let it clatter onto the wood, and pull her in by the waist. Her laugh’s muffled against me chest.

I murmur against her temple, voice low, steady. “Maybe I’ll take a break. Tea’s still hot?”

She nods. “And I made sandwiches.” I grin, kiss her forehead, and rest me chin there a moment longer before pullin’ away. “Right so,” I say, stretchin’ me shoulders. “We’ll eat. Then I’ll come back here. You’ll see — it’ll hold up better than anythin’ we could’ve bought.”

“You and your bloody wood.”

“Ah,” I tease, “you didn’t seem to mind me handiwork yesterday, love.”

Her laugh echoes through the house, and I can’t help but grin like a fool.