Val kissed me like she had been deciding on it for a week and got tired of pretending she was still unsure.

One second, I was standing by her kitchen counter with a glass of lemonade in my hand, still tasting the cheap red wine she had poured after I finished painting the last stretch of her fence. The next second, her hand was on my shirt. Mine was on the edge of the counter, and the quiet little kitchen in Church Hill felt way smaller than it had ten minutes before.

There was music playing from some speaker by the window. Not loud. Just enough to fill the spaces between us. The back door was open a crack, and I could smell fresh paint from the yard. My truck was parked right out front under the streetlight with a ladder still strapped to the rack like I had any reason to be there this late.

Val pulled back first. She didn’t smile right away. That was the thing about her. She didn’t give every feeling away for free. She looked at me—calm, but not really calm—her fingers still touching my sleeve.

*”Well,”* she said.

I let out a short laugh because I had no better answer. *”Yeah,”* I said. *”Well.”*

Then her phone buzzed on the counter.

We both looked at it. The screen lit up with one name: Connie. Val’s face changed so fast it made my chest drop. Not scared exactly. More like someone had opened a drawer she kept locked. She didn’t pick it up.

Then the doorbell camera chimed from the little tablet sitting near the coffee maker.

Val closed her eyes for half a second. On the screen, Connie stood on the porch holding one of those cardboard trays with two coffees in it, wearing a light jacket and the kind of patient smile people wear when they already know too much.

Val tapped the camera feed. Connie’s voice came through bright and careful. *”Val, I saw Glenn’s truck out here and figured you two might still be working. I brought coffee. Well, decaf for you.”*

I stood there with my lemonade, feeling like the room had turned me into evidence.

Val grabbed her phone and answered the call instead of the door. *”Hey, Connie,”* she said, smooth as anything. *”That’s sweet, but it’s late. Glenn was just finishing some fence touch-ups.”*

Connie tilted her head on the camera like she was trying to see past the door. *”This late?”*

*”Paint dried funny on the side gate,”* Val said. I almost looked out the window toward the gate like it might defend her story.

Connie gave a little laugh. *”You know, you can ask Stan to help with things like that.”*

Val’s eyes flicked to me. *”I know.”*

There was a pause. I could hear the tiny hum of the fridge. I could hear my own truck settling outside like it was trying to make itself louder.

Connie said, *”I just worry about you over here alone.”*

Val’s jaw tightened. *”That’s kind of you,”* she said. *”But I’m fine.”*

Connie didn’t move from the porch. *”Can I leave the coffee?”*

*”Sure,”* Val said. *”Thank you.”* She ended the call before Connie could add anything else.

For a second, neither of us spoke. The music kept playing soft and stupid, like it didn’t know the whole mood had shifted. Val set the phone down carefully.

*”I’m sorry,”* she said.

I nodded, but I wasn’t sure what I was nodding at.

*”She watches too closely,”* Val said. *”It’s not about you.”*

I wanted to believe that. I did believe it, mostly. But it still felt bad how quickly I had gone from being the guy she kissed to being the guy who needed an explanation.

*”She thinks I’m robbing the place?”* I asked, trying to make it lighter.

Val didn’t laugh. *”She thinks everything private is a problem waiting for a committee.”*

I looked toward the front of the house. *”So what now?”*

Val rubbed her forehead, then glanced down the hallway behind the kitchen. *”Use the back hall,”* she said. *”It leads to the alley. You can circle around after she leaves.”*

That landed harder than I expected. I set the lemonade down.

*”Glenn,”* she said. *”It’s okay. It isn’t because I’m ashamed.”*

I didn’t say that.

*”No,”* she said softer. *”But you thought it.”*

I didn’t answer because that was worse than arguing. She stepped closer like she wanted to fix the last two minutes with her hand on my arm, but she stopped herself. That hurt too, in a smaller way.

I grabbed my tool bag from beside the pantry. The same bag I had carried into a dozen houses that week. Loose hinges. Clogged gutters. Cabinet handles. Paint touch-ups. Cash jobs. Quick fixes. People liked me because I showed up, figured it out, and didn’t ask too many questions.

I didn’t like being the thing someone else had to figure out.

Val walked me to the back hallway. It smelled like laundry soap and old wood. She unlocked the rear door and looked at me under the little ceiling light.

*”I’ll call you tomorrow,”* she said.

*”For the fence?”* I asked.

Her mouth moved like she almost smiled. *”Maybe.”*

I stepped outside before I could say something dumb. The alley was narrow and dark with trash bins lined up along the fences. I walked past them with my tool bag bumping my leg, then came around the block like some kid sneaking out of a house after curfew.

Connie was gone by the time I reached my truck. The coffee tray sat on Val’s porch railing.

I drove back to my apartment with the windows down, even though the air was sticky. I kept tasting wine and lemonade and that kiss, all mixed up with the sour feeling of the back door closing behind me.

—

My place was over by a row of brick buildings with bad parking and louder neighbors. I shared it with two guys from high school, Alex and Chris. They were on the couch when I got in, watching some old game and eating wings out of a foil tray.

Alex looked over his shoulder. *”There he is. Richmond’s most mysterious contractor.”*

Chris laughed. *”You paint one fence for a woman in Church Hill and suddenly you got office hours.”*

I dropped my bag by the door.

*”It was a big fence,”* I said.

*”Must be,”* Alex said. *”You’ve been over there three times this week.”*

*”Four,”* Chris said.

I gave him a look. *”Why are you counting?”*

*”Because your drill charger is still on the kitchen counter, and I keep thinking it’s mine.”*

I walked over and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. The sink was full. Someone had left cereal in a bowl long enough for it to turn into paste. The trash needed taking out. The whole apartment had that warm, crowded smell of guys who meant to clean later and never got around to choosing later.

I leaned against the counter and checked my phone. No message from Val.

I told myself that was good. Normal. People didn’t text right after sending someone out the back door. Not when the neighbor was probably still awake behind blinds somewhere.

Alex turned back to the TV. *”For real, though. You working tomorrow? My cousin said he might need help moving some cabinets.”*

*”Might?”* I asked.

*”Yeah. Cash, though.”*

That was pretty much how my life worked. *Might. Maybe. Somebody’s cousin.* A job if I answered fast enough. A plan if nothing better came up. I wasn’t lazy. I worked. I just never seemed to build anything that lasted longer than the next payment.

My phone buzzed. I looked down too fast.

Val. The message said: *”Gate latch is sticking again. Could you stop by tomorrow?”*

I stared at it while the guys argued with the TV. The gate latch had been fine when I left.

I typed, *”Sure.”* Then I erased it. Then I typed, *”What time?”* And before I could think any harder, I sent it.

—

The next afternoon, I pulled up to Val’s house like I was there for the gate latch. But even I knew that was barely true. I still brought my tool bag. That made it feel official.

I parked in front this time—not in the alley—and sat there for a second with both hands on the wheel. Connie’s house was two doors down with white curtains and two planters on the porch. I could feel myself checking the windows before I even got out. That annoyed me.

I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Val wasn’t doing anything wrong. But after the night before, the whole block felt like it had eyes.

Val opened the door before I knocked. She had on jeans and a soft gray shirt. Hair pulled back. No wine. No music. No kitchen glow making everything feel warmer than it was.

*”Hey,”* she said.

*”Hey.”*

We stood there like two people who had practiced being normal and still didn’t quite nail it.

*”The latch?”* I asked.

She stepped aside. *”Back gate.”*

I walked through the house with my bag in hand. The place was clean like always. Not showy, just cared for. Shoes lined up by the wall. Mail stacked straight on the little entry table. A blue water bottle by the stairs.

Then I saw the volleyball in the hallway. It was wedged beside a pair of knee pads and a folded green shirt with white letters on it.

I stopped. *”No way,”* I said.

Val turned. *”What?”*

I pointed at the ball. *”You.”*

Her eyebrows lifted. *”Me? What?”*

*”You play volleyball?”*

*”Why do you sound so surprised?”*

*”I don’t know,”* I said. *”I pictured you more like book club with strict snack rules.”*

She stared at me for one second, then laughed. A real laugh. Not polite. Not careful.

*”That is rude.”*

*”It’s honest.”*

*”I play in a rec league near the park.”*

*”You dive for balls in public?”*

*”I do more than dive,”* she said, walking ahead of me toward the kitchen. *”I win.”*

That should not have made me smile as much as it did.

—

I followed her out back and fixed the latch in about five minutes because nothing was really wrong with it except one loose screw. I tightened it, swung the gate twice, and looked at her.

*”That’s going to be $4,700 for one screw. Premium screw.”*

She crossed her arms. *”I have lemonade. I can accept partial payment.”*

She shook her head, but she was smiling again, and for a while, the weirdness from the night before loosened up. We sat outside on the back steps with two glasses, keeping a foot of space between us that both of us noticed.

Then her phone buzzed. I looked before I could stop myself. She saw me do it.

*”It’s not Connie,”* she said.

*”Didn’t ask.”*

*”You looked.”*

*”I’m a visual learner.”*

She checked the message and frowned. *”Actually, it’s my volleyball group. We’re short one player tonight.”*

I leaned back on my hands. *”That’s tragic.”*

*”You said you used to play.”*

*”I said that.”*

*”No. Your face did. When you saw the ball.”*

I laughed. *”Yeah, with friends. Nothing serious.”*

*”It’s not serious.”*

The look she gave me said it was absolutely serious. I should have said no. I had a cabinet repair I could have checked on. And Alex’s cousin had finally given an actual time for those cabinets. But Val was looking at me like she wanted to see who I was outside her kitchen.

And I wanted the same thing from her.

So I said, *”What time?”*

—

The court was by a park not far from Church Hill, tucked beside a patch of grass where kids rode bikes and people walked dogs like they were in no hurry to get anywhere. I showed up in gym shorts, old sneakers, and a shirt I didn’t mind ruining.

Val was already there, tying her hair tighter and talking with three other players like she had known them forever. She looked different before the game even started. Not younger, not older—just sharper. Awake in a way I hadn’t seen inside the quiet house.

She pointed at me when I came over. *”This is Glenn. He claims he can play.”*

*”I claimed casual experience,”* I said.

A guy named Rob tossed me the ball. *”Can you serve?”*

*”Depends who’s asking.”*

Val took the ball from me. *”That means no.”*

She walked to the back line and served first. I expected a soft neighborhood serve—the kind that floated over and gave everyone time to clap. Instead, she smacked it low and hard, and the other side barely got under it. The ball popped up messy. Val moved fast, called it, and set it clean to Rob, who sent it over.

I just stood there for half a second.

Val glanced back at me. *”You planning to join us?”*

*”Just admiring the paperwork.”*

*”There is no paperwork.”*

*”Exactly. Very freeing.”*

Then the ball came at me and I missed it like a fool. Not a little miss either. It hit my forearms wrong, bounced sideways, and rolled under the bench.

Val pressed her lips together.

*”Say it,”* I told her.

*”I didn’t say anything.”*

*”You’re saying it with your whole face.”*

Her smile broke open. *”Your platform was terrible.”*

*”My platform has been through a lot.”*

*”Your platform needs counseling.”*

Everybody laughed. And just like that, I stopped feeling like the handyman who had slipped out through her back door. I was just a guy on a court sweating through my shirt, trying not to let Val have too much fun at my expense.

After ten minutes, I got my timing back. My passes cleaned up. I blocked one shot from a tall guy across the net, and Val pointed at me like I had finally earned my spot.

*”There he is,”* she said.

*”You doubted me.”*

*”I observed you. That sounds worse.”*

She served again, then moved right behind me when the ball came back. I heard her call *”Mine”* close to my shoulder. I ducked. She slid in, bumped it up, and I sent it over with a clean hit that landed open in the back corner.

Our team cheered. Val turned toward me, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

*”Okay,”* she said. *”That was decent.”*

*”Decent.”*

*”Don’t get greedy.”*

We won by two.

—

By the end, my shirt was soaked and my legs felt like I had climbed ladders all day. Val looked tired too, but happy in a way she didn’t try to hide. We walked to a food truck parked near the curb, and she bought lemonade because apparently that was becoming a thing with us.

We sat on the low wall by the court, knees almost touching, eating fries from a paper tray.

*”I didn’t know you were like that,”* I said.

*”Like what?”*

*”Competitive.”*

She dipped a fry in sauce. *”I live alone, Glenn. I don’t live asleep.”*

That shut me up for a second. Then she bumped my knee with hers.

*”You’re better than your first five minutes.”*

*”I was warming up.”*

*”You were embarrassing yourself.”*

*”Different words for the same process.”*

She laughed, and I looked away because I wanted to kiss her again. But this wasn’t her kitchen, and there were people around, and I didn’t know what rules we were following anymore.

That was when I saw Connie. She was near the sidewalk with a little brown dog on a leash, watching us with that same careful face from the doorbell camera. She lifted one hand.

Val saw her too. For a second, I felt the old pull in her. The tiny pause. The instinct to explain. But she didn’t move away from me. She just lifted her hand back and said, *”Evening, Connie.”*

Connie looked from Val to me, then to the court behind us. *”Didn’t know you two played together.”*

Val picked up another fry. *”We do now.”*

Connie smiled, but it had questions tucked under it. *”Nice.”*

She kept walking. Val didn’t chase the moment. She didn’t explain why I was there or how long I had stayed or what I meant to her. She just sat beside me, sipping lemonade through a straw while the court lights flickered on.

My phone buzzed then. Alex’s cousin: *”Cabinets tomorrow morning. 8 a.m. You in?”*

Before I answered, Val’s phone buzzed too. She looked at it, then at me. *”My pantry shelf is sagging again. Not urgent.”*

I nodded. Then, like an idiot, I typed back to Alex’s cousin: *”Can’t tomorrow.”*

I sent it fast. Too fast. Val didn’t see the message, but I did. And sitting there beside her with my shoulder warm from the game and my head full of her laugh, I realized I had just picked another small excuse over actual money.

—

The pantry shelf took me seven minutes.

That was the problem. I had turned down a cabinet job that would have paid me enough to cover my half of rent for the week. And I was standing in Val’s kitchen with a screwdriver, tightening two brackets that barely needed tightening at all.

Val watched from the doorway with her arms crossed. Not in a cold way. Just watching.

I tested the shelf with my hand. *”That should hold.”*

*”It held before,”* she said.

I looked back at her. She didn’t blink. I set the screwdriver down on the counter.

*”So,”* I said.

*”So.”*

*”This wasn’t about the shelf.”*

*”It was a little about the shelf.”*

*”A little.”*

She walked over and touched the edge of it, like she was giving herself a second before saying what she really meant.

*”Glenn, did you skip other work to come here?”*

I could have lied. I almost did. The lie was right there, easy and ready.

*”No,”* I said.

She gave me a look.

I sighed. *”Maybe.”*

*”Maybe?”*

*”Yeah.”*

*”Was there another thing? A better thing?”*

I leaned against the counter. *”Better paid.”*

*”Yeah.”*

Val’s face didn’t change much, but I could tell she didn’t like that. *”You shouldn’t do that,”* she said.

*”It’s one job.”*

*”It isn’t one job.”*

That bothered me because she was right, and I didn’t want her to be right out loud. I picked up my screwdriver again, even though I didn’t need it.

*”I make my own schedule.”*

*”You let whoever texts first make your schedule.”*

That hit too close. I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.

*”Okay,”* I said.

*”I’m not trying to insult you.”*

*”Feels pretty close.”*

*”Then listen closer.”*

The kitchen got quiet. No music that day. No lemonade on the counter. Just the hum of the fridge and a car passing outside. Val stepped nearer, but she kept space between us.

*”I like having you here,”* she said. *”Probably more than I should.”*

I looked down at the screwdriver in my hand.

*”But my house cannot become your whole life.”*

I looked up. *”It’s not.”*

*”Isn’t it?”*

I wanted to say no fast. I wanted to list all the things I had going on. Work. Friends. Plans. Money coming in here and there. But when I lined it up in my head, it sounded thin.

I had a room I barely liked. Roommates I complained about. Tools in my truck and a bunch of half-promises from people who needed cheap help. Val’s house was clean. Quiet. There was always ice in the freezer and real glasses in the cabinet. She asked if I had eaten and actually waited for the answer.

When I fixed something, it stayed fixed. When I sat at her table, I felt like I had arrived somewhere.

That was dangerous. And I think she saw it before I did.

*”I just like being here,”* I said finally.

Her expression softened. *”I know.”*

*”My apartment’s a mess. Work’s random. Half the time I wake up and don’t know who I’m supposed to be for the day.”*

*”You’re supposed to be yourself.”*

*”That sounds nice.”*

*”It’s also work.”*

I rubbed my face. *”So what? You want me to stop coming around?”*

*”No.”*

*”Then what?”*

*”I want you to have somewhere to go that belongs to you. Not mine. Not your roommates’. Yours.”*

I didn’t answer. She reached for my hand, then stopped, like she was afraid that would make the point weaker.

*”Calm can turn into hiding,”* she said. *”I know because I’ve done it.”*

That was the first time she made it about herself too. Not just me drifting. *Her hiding.*

—

After I left, I didn’t go home right away. I sat in my truck on Broad Street and searched apartments on my phone with the engine running.

Most of them were too expensive. Some looked like the floor might cave in if I breathed wrong. A few wanted proof of steady income, which made me laugh because my income was steady only if you averaged out panic.

But I kept looking.

The next week was ugly in a practical way. I took every job I could get. A porch railing in Fulton. Cabinet handles out near Mechanicsville. A mailbox post for a woman who paid me in cash and banana bread.

I stopped saying yes to Val during the day unless I was actually free. She noticed. Of course she did. When I came by one evening after a real job, she had dinner already packed into containers.

*”I made too much,”* she said.

*”You always say that.”*

*”I always do.”*

We ate at the kitchen table, and it felt good, but not as easy as before. There was a new line in the room. Not a wall. Just a line.

*”I looked at a place today,”* I told her.

Her fork paused. *”Yeah?”*

*”Small one-bedroom. Across town. Not fancy.”*

*”Do you like it?”*

*”I like that the bathroom door closes all the way.”*

*”That’s a strong feature.”*

*”And there’s a window over the sink.”*

She smiled. *”Look at you. Standards.”*

I smiled too. But then her face went quiet. Across town meant I wouldn’t just drift over after a bad day. It meant I would have to *choose* to come, and she would have to choose to let me. It made everything more honest, which somehow made it harder.

—

A few days later, I signed the papers.

I moved in with help from Alex, who complained the whole time but carried the heavy stuff anyway. The apartment had scuffed floors, one closet, and a kitchen so small I could touch both counters if I stood in the middle. But the key was mine. The bills would be mine. The silence would be mine too.

That first night, I sat on the floor eating takeout because I didn’t have a table yet. I almost texted Val three times. I didn’t.

The next morning, I got up early for a job and showed up on time. Then I did it again the day after that.

It wasn’t some big movie change. I still forgot to buy towels. I still had boxes stacked against the wall. I still missed Val’s back steps and her cold lemonade and the way she watched me like she expected me to become better without begging me to do it.

But I liked walking into my own place at night. I liked putting my keys on the counter and knowing nobody would move them.

Val and I still saw each other. We played volleyball on Thursdays. On the court, we were almost normal. She teased my serve. I teased her for pretending not to care about points. And sometimes our hands brushed when we rotated positions.

After games, we sat with the team or grabbed food. But we didn’t fall back into that kitchen routine as easily.

Connie caught them leaving the court one evening just as Val and I were standing by my truck. Val had one of those green league wristbands around her wrist, and I was holding two lemonades.

Connie walked over with her dog and that careful smile. *”You two are really making a habit of this,”* she said.

I felt Val go still beside me. Connie looked at me, then at Val. *”It’s just good to know who’s around. People worry.”*

Val took the lemonade from my hand. *”Connie,”* she said, calm but firm. *”You can care about me. I appreciate that. But you don’t get to inspect my front door, my guests, or my private life.”*

I looked at Val, surprised.

Connie opened her mouth, then closed it. Val didn’t fill the silence for her. Finally, Connie nodded, a little stiff. *”I didn’t mean anything by it.”*

*”I know,”* Val said. *”That’s why I’m saying it clearly.”*

Connie walked off after that, her dog trotting ahead like it wanted out of the conversation too. For a second, I felt proud. Not loud proud. Just warm. Val hadn’t hidden me. She hadn’t explained me. She had stood right there in public and made a line.

But when she looked at me after, the warmth shifted. Because I could see it on her face. She was done hiding me. That didn’t mean she knew where I fit now.

And honestly, neither did I.

—

Val texted me about the hoodie on a Tuesday morning. Not the pantry shelf. Not the gate. Not some loose handle or light that flickered when it felt like it. Just the hoodie.

*”You left your blue hoodie here. I’ll be home until 10.”*

I read it while standing in my new kitchen with one shoe on and a piece of toast in my hand. The apartment still looked half moved in. Boxes along the wall. A folding chair by the window. A stack of invoices on the counter that I kept meaning to organize.

But it was mine. That was the part I kept coming back to.

I put the toast down, tied my shoe, and drove to Church Hill.

Her street looked the same as always. Quiet houses. Clean porches. Morning sun hitting the brick. Connie’s curtains were open, and I caught myself noticing that before I even turned off the truck.

Then I stopped.

I got out, walked up the front steps, and knocked on Val’s front door.

No alley. No back hall. No circling the block like I was part of something that had to be hidden.

Val opened the door with my hoodie folded over one arm. She looked good. Simple like always. Dark pants. White shirt. Hair loose around her shoulders. But her face had that careful calm again—the one I had learned meant she had already thought through the hard part before I even got there.

*”Morning,”* she said.

*”Morning.”*

She glanced past me toward the street, then back at me. *”You used the front door.”*

*”Yeah,”* I said. *”Figured I’m grown.”*

That got a small smile out of her, but it didn’t last long. She stepped aside. *”Come in for a minute?”*

I did.

The kitchen felt different in the morning. No music. No lemonade on the counter. No tools spread out like a reason for me to stay. Just sunlight, coffee, and two chairs pulled out like she had already decided we were going to sit.

I sat across from her. She placed the hoodie on the table between us. For a second, neither of us touched it.

*”How’s the apartment?”* she asked.

*”Still standing.”*

*”That’s promising.”*

*”I bought a table. A real one.”*

*”Real enough?”*

*”It wobbles if I lean on the left side.”*

*”Don’t lean on the left side.”*

*”That’s my current repair plan.”*

She smiled again, and for half a second, it felt like we could slide right back into it. The jokes. The soft places. The way she made a room feel steady without trying.

Then her fingers moved over the folded sleeve of my hoodie.

*”I liked what we had,”* she said.

There it was. Not dramatic. Not angry. Just true. Which somehow made it worse.

I leaned back a little. *”I did too.”*

*”I know.”*

*”I still do.”*

She looked at me then. Really looked. *”Glenn.”*

I hated hearing my name like that. Gentle, but already past the point where talking could change much.

*”I don’t want to be hidden,”* she said. *”I think you know that.”*

*”You’re not.”*

*”No. Not anymore.”*

*”Then what is it?”*

She looked around the kitchen like the answer was in the cabinets, the clean counter, the window over the sink.

*”I also don’t want to be the quiet place you come back to when the rest of your life feels shaky.”*

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Because I wanted to argue. I wanted to say that wasn’t what she was—that she was more than that. And she was. But I also knew how many times I had come here because her house felt easier than my own life. I knew how fast I had answered her texts. I knew how good it felt to be needed for small things when I didn’t know how to build bigger ones.

*”That’s not all you were,”* I said.

Her eyes softened. *”I believe you. But easy comfort isn’t always enough to build a future.”*

I looked down at the hoodie. The kitchen was too quiet. I could hear a truck passing outside. A dog barking somewhere down the block. The little click of her wall clock.

*”So this has to be over?”* I asked.

She took a breath. *”Maybe it already is.”*

That one sat there between us. Not mean. Not sharp. Just heavy.

I nodded once, even though my chest felt tight.

*”We were real,”* I said.

*”Yes,”* she said quickly, like she didn’t want me leaving with any doubt about that. *”We were. But it worked better in here.”* She looked down at her coffee. *”In here. In the quiet. With the repairs and the lemonade and you not quite knowing where else to be.”*

I let out a small laugh, but it came out rough. *”That sounds pathetic.”*

*”It isn’t. It’s human.”*

I rubbed my hands together under the table. *”I’m trying, Val.”*

*”I know you are. That’s why I’m proud of you.”*

That almost made it harder.

She reached beside her chair and picked up a green wristband from the volleyball league. The same kind everyone got after the small charity match the week before. She set it on top of the hoodie.

*”What’s this?”* I asked.

*”A reminder that my serve is terrible.”*

She laughed. And this time it was real but sad around the edges.

*”Your serve is unpredictable.”*

*”That’s generous.”*

*”It is.”*

I picked up the wristband and turned it in my fingers. Cheap fabric. Faded logo. Nothing important. Except it was.

Val stood. So I stood too.

At the front door, we paused. For a second, I thought maybe we would hug. Maybe kiss. Maybe do something that would make leaving cleaner or messier. I didn’t know which.

Instead, she handed me the hoodie.

*”Take care of your table,”* she said.

*”I’ll tighten the left side.”*

*”And show up on time.”*

I nodded. *”Yeah.”*

She opened the door. I stepped out onto the porch—front and center—with morning light on the street and my truck waiting at the curb. Connie’s curtains shifted two houses down, but this time I didn’t care enough to check.

I turned back once. Val stood in the doorway with one hand on the frame.

*”Glenn,”* she said.

*”Yeah?”*

*”You were never just the handyman.”*

My throat tightened. *”And you were never just the quiet house.”*

She nodded. And that was all.

—

I drove back across town with the hoodie on the passenger seat and the wristband around my fingers. My apartment was exactly how I left it. Boxes. Folding chair. Uneven table. Bills on the counter. No lemonade waiting. No clean kitchen that belonged to someone else.

I hung my keys on the hook by the door. Then I folded the hoodie and put it on the chair instead of leaving it on the floor.

My phone buzzed while I was packing my tool bag for an early job. A new number.

*”Hey, this is Denise. Rob from volleyball gave me your number. You still doing odd jobs?”*

I looked around my little apartment at the table that needed fixing and the invoices waiting to be sorted. And for once, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for somebody else to tell me what my day was.

I typed back: *”Yes. I can come by at 9.”*

Then I set my alarm, plugged in my drill battery, and got ready to show up.