Updated Jan 26, 2026 • ~12 min read
I was avoiding Maple Street.
Which was ridiculous since I’d literally agreed to help with the renovation. But Monday morning found me at Murphy’s Hardware picking up paint supplies for Mars’s bookstore instead of showing up at my former house like I’d promised.
I’d texted Jaxon at 9:45: Running late. Start without me. Be there by noon.
His response: No problem. Take your time.
Too understanding. Too patient. It made me want to throw my phone.
I wandered the paint aisle, pretending to care deeply about the difference between eggshell and satin finish, when I heard a familiar voice two aisles over.
“No, I need something that won’t damage original Victorian woodwork. What do you have that’s period-appropriate?”
Jaxon. Of course. Because the universe had a sick sense of humor.
I should have left. Should have abandoned my paint mission and fled before he saw me. Instead, I found myself drifting closer, morbid curiosity winning over self-preservation.
He stood in the stain and varnish section looking completely out of his depth, holding two different cans and frowning at them like they were written in ancient Greek. Murphy—the store’s seventy-year-old owner who’d known Grammy for decades—was trying to help.
“For the trim, you’ll want this oil-based polyurethane,” Murphy said, pointing to one of the cans. “But you’ll need to strip the old finish first or it won’t take right.”
“Strip it how?”
“Chemical stripper, heat gun, or sanding. Chemical’s fastest but messiest.”
Jaxon set down both cans and pulled out his phone, presumably to Google “how not to destroy Victorian house through ignorance.” His expression was somewhere between determined and panicked.
He was going to ruin everything.
Grammy’s house had original woodwork from 1892. The trim was hand-carved mahogany, the banisters were oak, the built-in shelving was cherry. If he used the wrong stripper or sanded too aggressively or sealed it with modern polyurethane, he’d destroy 130 years of patina and history.
I should let him. Should let him make mistakes and learn the hard way. Except.
Except it was Grammy’s house. And no matter who owned it legally, I couldn’t watch someone destroy her legacy out of ignorance.
I sighed. Walked over to the aisle. Cleared my throat.
Jaxon turned. Surprise flickered across his face, followed by something that looked like relief.
“Juni. I thought you weren’t coming until noon.”
“I’m not. I’m here for Mars. You’re about to make a terrible mistake.”
He looked at the cans in his hands. “These?”
“Those. That polyurethane is wrong. You’ll kill the wood’s natural color and make it look plastic.” I pulled a different can from the shelf. “This. Tung oil finish. It’s what was probably used originally. It’ll preserve the patina and let the wood breathe.”
Murphy nodded approvingly. “Smart girl. Your grandma taught you well.”
“She did.” I felt the familiar ache in my chest. “She knew everything about that house.”
“And now you do,” Jaxon said quietly. “Thank God. I was about to commit architectural murder.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled. “That’s dramatic.”
“Have you seen what bad restoration does to Victorian homes? It’s actually murder. Visual murder.”
“You’re an architect. Shouldn’t you know this?”
“I design new buildings. Modern materials, modern techniques. Historic preservation is a completely different skill set.” He gestured helplessly at the overwhelming array of products. “I’m in over my head.”
He looked so honestly overwhelmed that something in my chest softened against my will. I’d spent weeks imagining him as a villain—cold, calculating, deliberately taking what wasn’t his. But standing here in Murphy’s Hardware looking lost and holding the wrong varnish, he just looked like a guy trying not to screw up.
“What else do you have?” I asked.
He pulled out his phone, showing me a list. “I need to refinish the living room trim, repair the banisters, fix the built-in shelving in what used to be—” He stopped. “In the library.”
Used to be the library. Because it wasn’t mine anymore. The casual reminder stung.
I looked at his list. It was thorough, organized, and almost entirely wrong.
“Okay. New plan.” I grabbed a shopping cart. “Come with me. I’m going to save you from yourself.”
For the next hour, we walked through Murphy’s Hardware while I corrected every single item on Jaxon’s list. Wrong sandpaper grit. Wrong wood filler. Wrong brushes. Wrong primer.
“How were you planning to strip the paint from the dining room wainscoting?” I asked.
“This.” He held up a container of chemical stripper.
“That’ll eat through the wood veneer. You need to use a heat gun and scrapers. Gentle heat, shallow angle, patience.”
“I don’t have patience.”
“Then hire someone who does, or learn to fake it. Grammy spent forty years maintaining that house. You don’t get to undo her work because you’re in a hurry.”
He absorbed the criticism without defensiveness. Just nodded, put back the chemical stripper, and added a heat gun to the cart.
We moved to the paint section. He’d chosen a modern latex paint for the kitchen.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “Original plaster walls need breathable paint. Lime wash or milk paint. Otherwise you’ll trap moisture and create mold problems.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Grammy and I restored the bathroom together when I was sixteen. Spent six months researching period-appropriate techniques. I read every book the library had on Victorian restoration.”
Because I’d thought someday the house would be mine. Thought I’d spend decades maintaining it the way Grammy had. Thought I’d pass it down to my own children with stories about how Grammy and I had preserved this piece of history together.
The grief must have shown on my face because Jaxon’s expression shifted to something uncomfortably close to sympathy.
“Juni—”
“Let’s keep moving. You also need wood glue that won’t stain mahogany, finishing nails that won’t rust, and about six different grades of steel wool.” I pushed the cart forward before he could say whatever he’d been about to say.
By the time we reached the register, the cart was full and Jaxon looked slightly shell-shocked.
“This is three times what I’d budgeted,” he said, looking at Murphy’s running total.
“That’s what proper restoration costs. You can do it right or do it cheap. Pick one.”
“Right. Obviously right.” He pulled out his credit card without further argument.
While Murphy rang up the purchase, Jaxon turned to me. “Thank you. Seriously. I would have destroyed everything.”
“I wasn’t helping you,” I said, sharper than intended. “I was protecting the house.”
“I know.” His eyes—those warm, understanding brown eyes that I was really starting to hate—held mine. “But you still helped. Even though you’d probably prefer to watch me fail.”
“I would,” I admitted. “But the house doesn’t deserve to suffer because I hate you.”
“Do you? Hate me?”
Good question. I’d hated him in theory for days. But standing here after an hour of talking about wood grain and restoration techniques, I was having trouble accessing that pure, simple hatred.
He was earnest. Genuine in his desire to honor the house’s history. Willing to learn. Humble about his limitations. All qualities that made him harder to villainize.
“I’m working on it,” I said finally.
He smiled—a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look younger, less burdened. “Fair enough.”
Murphy handed over the receipt. “You two make a good team. Been a long time since someone cared this much about preserving our town’s history.”
“We’re not a team,” I said quickly. “I’m just consulting.”
“Uh-huh.” Murphy’s knowing look made me want to evaporate. “Your grandma would be glad you’re looking after the house, Juni. No matter who’s living there.”
The words hit harder than intended. Would Grammy be glad? Or would she be disappointed that I was helping the man she’d chosen over me?
Outside, Jaxon loaded supplies into his truck while I stood on the sidewalk, trying to figure out my exit strategy.
“Juni,” he called. “Have you had lunch?”
“It’s eleven AM.”
“Early lunch. Coffee, then. There’s a place across the street.” He nodded toward Bean There, the coffee shop I’d been going to since high school. “Let me buy you something. To thank you for saving me from architectural murder.”
Every instinct screamed to say no. To maintain distance. To not have coffee with the man living in my house like we were friends instead of adversaries.
But I’d skipped breakfast. And Bean There made the best lattes in town. And some masochistic part of me wanted to sit across from Jaxon Torres and try to understand why Grammy had chosen him.
“One coffee,” I said. “Then I have work.”
“Deal.”
Bean There was busy with the Monday morning crowd—retirees reading newspapers, freelancers camped out with laptops, high school students skipping class. Thea, the owner, brightened when she saw me.
“Juni! Haven’t seen you in weeks. How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I lied automatically.
Thea’s eyes shifted to Jaxon, curiosity sharpening. “And who’s this?”
“Jaxon Torres. I’m—”
“He inherited Grammy’s house,” I said flatly, watching Thea’s expression shift from curiosity to understanding to something like sympathy.
“Oh. Well.” Thea recovered quickly, professional smile back in place. “What can I get you both?”
I ordered my usual—oat milk latte with cinnamon. Jaxon ordered black coffee, no sugar, like a psychopath.
“Black coffee?” I asked as we waited. “What are you, a Puritan?”
“I like to taste the coffee.”
“That’s what people who don’t like joy say.”
He laughed—a genuine, surprised laugh that did something unfortunate to my pulse. “I like joy. I just don’t need it sweetened.”
“Sounds like a metaphor for your personality.”
“Probably is.”
We took our drinks to a table by the window. I sat across from him, hyperaware of how domestic this felt. How couple-like. Two people grabbing coffee after a hardware store run, easy and comfortable.
Except we weren’t comfortable. We were orbiting a massive conflict, pretending normalcy while everything burned underneath.
“Can I ask you something?” Jaxon said after a moment.
“You can ask. I might not answer.”
“Why did you really help me today? You could have let me buy the wrong supplies. Let me make mistakes. It would have been justified revenge.”
I considered lying. Considered saying something cutting about not trusting him with the house. But I was tired of performing anger when the reality was so much more complicated.
“Grammy loved that house,” I said finally. “She gave her whole life to preserving it. And I—” My voice caught. “I can’t watch someone destroy her legacy, even if that someone is you. Even if I wish you’d never come here. The house matters more than my feelings.”
Jaxon was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You loved her a lot.”
“She was the only person who stayed.” The words came out rawer than intended. “My parents left when I was six. Grammy raised me. She was everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Everyone’s sorry. Sorry doesn’t change anything.” I took a drink of my latte, using the motion to compose myself. “What about you? Did you have anyone?”
He shook his head. “Foster care. Twelve different homes between ages two and eighteen. Never got adopted. Never had someone who…” He trailed off. “Someone who stayed.”
The parallel was too obvious. Too painful. We were the same—abandoned kids grown into adults still carrying wounds.
“So we’re both orphans fighting over a house that belongs to neither of us,” I said.
“I don’t think that’s how inheritance—”
“You know what I mean.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I do.” He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, those carpenter’s hands that would be restoring Grammy’s woodwork. “For what it’s worth, I wish it had been different. I wish she’d left it to you. I wish I could have met her before she died. I wish—” He stopped. “I wish a lot of things that won’t change reality.”
“Wishes are useless.”
“Maybe. But they’re all we have sometimes.”
Something in his voice made me look up. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t name—sad and searching and entirely too understanding.
“I should go,” I said abruptly, standing. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Juni, wait.” He stood too. “Come to the house. For dinner. Tonight. I’ll cook, we can go over renovation plans, and I’ll show you what I’m thinking for the library restoration.”
“I don’t think—”
“Please.” The word was quiet, honest. “You know the house better than I ever will. I don’t want to make decisions without your input. And I think—” He paused. “I think maybe we could be allies instead of enemies. If we tried.”
Allies. Such a careful word. Not friends. Not partners. Just two people working toward the same goal: preserving something they both loved for different reasons.
I should say no. Should maintain boundaries and distance and all the protective walls I’d built.
But Grammy’s house needed protecting. And Jaxon clearly needed help. And some traitorous part of me wanted to see what he’d done to the library—whether he’d honored it or destroyed it.
“Six o’clock,” I said. “And I’m only coming for the house, not for you.”
His smile was crooked, self-aware. “I’ll take it.”
I walked out of Bean There feeling like I’d just made a terrible mistake.
But I couldn’t quite bring myself to cancel.
Because he’d said the house, and my stupid, wounded heart still answered to that call.
Even when it probably shouldn’t.
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