8. Levi

CHAPTER 8

Levi

I paused in the doorway of one of the half-finished chalets, taking in the quiet stillness of the space. The smell of sawdust hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of fresh paint. There was so much left undone—cabinets half-installed, trim unpainted, and a general sense of incompleteness that should’ve felt overwhelming. But instead, it felt like a challenge. Like a possibility waiting to be shaped. The place had a certain charm, even in its unfinished state, and I couldn't help but imagine how it would look once it was complete.

Earlier, I’d spent a couple of hours here working alongside Aiden, and the time had flown by, which caught me off guard. After that, I’d gone to visit my granddad at the care facility. He was doing great—chatty, sharp as ever, and full of excitement about the progress I’d shared with him. His enthusiasm had rubbed off on me, and by the time I got back to the chalet, I was itching to pick up where we’d left off.

But then I saw Aiden.

He was hunched over a section of cabinetry, his shoulders bunched tight, and his jaw clenched like he was gearing up for a fight. The tool in his hand looked like it might get launched across the room at any second.

“Everything okay in here?” I asked, keeping my tone light as I leaned against the doorframe.

“Yeah,” he muttered, barely glancing in my direction.

It didn’t take a genius to know that wasn’t true. His stiff and deliberate movements, the tight line of his mouth—it all screamed frustration. I stayed where I was, letting the silence stretch out for a moment. Aiden had a knack for building walls faster than anyone I’d ever met, but even the tallest walls had cracks.

“Doesn’t look fine,” I said after a beat, stepping further into the room.

Aiden straightened, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead. A streak of sawdust marked his skin, and for a second, I was struck by the urge to reach out and brush it off for him. “I’ve got it,” he said, his tone defensive.

“Uh-huh.” I crouched beside him, my eyes scanning the uneven wood panel he’d been wrestling with. “So what’s the problem?”

“I said I’ve got it,” he snapped, but the edge in his voice wavered.

I leaned back on my heels, giving him a long, steady look. “You sure about that?”

His hand flexed around the screwdriver, and for a second, I thought he’d ignore me. Then he sighed, the sound heavy and reluctant. “Fine. I need help.”

The admission came out like it had been ripped from him, and I couldn’t help but smile. “See? That wasn’t so hard to say.”

He shot me a glare that could’ve melted ice. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Not making it a thing,” I said, holding up my hands. “Just tell me what’s going on here.”

I knelt beside him and took a closer look at the cabinetry. The wood was a little warped, the screws weren’t the right size, and the whole thing was just slightly off-kilter. “Well, for starters, you’re using the wrong screws. These are too short; they’re not biting into the wood the way they should.”

“They were the only ones I could find in the toolbox,” he said defensively.

“That’s because you didn’t check the box on the shelf,” I teased, tilting my head toward the corner. “Right tools for the job, remember?”

Aiden scowled, but there was a flicker of something lighter in his eyes. “Superhero strength doesn’t need the right tools,” he muttered under his breath.

“True. But you’re not a superhero. Fortunately, you’ve got me.”

He snorted at that, the sound grudging but genuine. “You’re not a superhero, either.”

I shrugged. “Fair. Call me your trusty sidekick, then.”

That earned me a real laugh—a quiet one, but it was there.

We got to work, and I made it a point to stay close—not hovering, but close enough to offer guidance when he needed it. At first, his shoulders were like drawn bows, tension radiating off him in waves. But as I talked him through the fixes, pointing out the right screws and how to align the warped wood, I could see the knots starting to loosen. His hands moved more confidently, and his brow furrowed less with each adjustment.

“You’ve got good instincts,” I said, watching as he tightened a screw with more precision this time. “Like, freakishly good. Maybe you were a carpenter in another life.”

He glanced at me, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Or maybe I just watched too many DIY shows with Nicholas.”

“Whatever works,” I said with a shrug. “Hey, next time, we’ll build something from scratch. Maybe a birdhouse. Something small, just to warm up.”

“Birdhouses are for beginners,” he shot back, but his voice held a teasing edge now instead of frustration.

“Fine, tough guy. A treehouse, then.” I leaned in a little, nudging his arm with mine. “Bet we could make the coolest one in Juniper Hollow. Slide, rope swing, the works.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he reached for the next screw. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you’re smiling, so I must be doing something right.”

The smile he tried to hide didn’t escape me, and I felt an odd warmth settle in my chest. I watched as his hands worked—steady now, his fingers curling around the screwdriver with an ease that hadn’t been there before.

“Here, let me hold this steady,” I offered, bracing the cabinet door as he lined up the final screw. Our hands brushed briefly, and I caught the slightest hitch in his breath. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make me look up.

For a second, our eyes met. His cheeks flushed a faint pink, and he quickly focused back on the task at hand.

By the time the last screw was in, the cabinet door hung straight and solid. Aiden stepped back, his hands resting on his hips as he surveyed the work. “Looks good,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost shy.

I reached out and gave the door a gentle tug to test it. “Looks more than good. It’s solid.” I glanced at him, letting a small smile curve my lips. “Told you you could do it.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just nodded and wiped his hands on his jeans. But as we started tidying up, I caught him glancing my way more than once, his expression softer, less guarded. “Thanks,” he said eventually. And for the first time since we started, it felt like he wasn’t just tolerating my help—he was letting me in.

“Anytime,” I replied, leaning casually against the counter. My eyes drifted down and caught sight of something in his hand.

It was a mini stuffy, barely the size of a fist—an owl, with soft brown feathers and wide, stitched eyes that seemed to follow me. Paige made things like that in her spare time. She had a knack for sewing stuffies in every size imaginable, so I was sure this one Aiden had was a mini stuffy, similar to Paige’s collection of “pocket pals.” The sight of this one here, snug in Aiden’s palm, tugged at something deep in me.

I didn’t say anything, didn’t even let my gaze linger too long, but the way his thumb brushed absentmindedly over the fabric made my chest ache. He was standing there, holding it like it was the most natural thing in the world, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he even realized he was doing it.

“You’re not bad at this stuff,” I said, keeping my tone light.

“Coming from the guy who called himself a sidekick?” he shot back, his lips quirking into a smirk.

I laughed, the sound warm and easy. “Touché. Guess that makes us a good team.”

For a moment, he just looked at me, and I saw the faintest blush creep up his neck. Then he tucked the owl into his pocket, his movements almost shy.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “We are.”

And just like that, the distance between us felt a little smaller.

I leaned against the counter, watching Aiden finish surreptitiously tucking his stuffy in his pocket, like he’d just realized he was holding the cute little thing. I couldn’t help but wonder why it was so important to me that Aiden let me in, that he let me help him, let me be there. What was it about him that made me feel like I had to break through those walls of his?

The thought carried me back to my past, to the relationship I’d left behind. Ian. He’d been everything I thought I wanted —ambitious, successful, driven. The chemistry between us had been real, undeniable.

When the family and I decided to move to Juniper Hollow to take over the family tree farm, it wasn’t just a career change. It was a life change—a choice that meant giving up the promises I’d made in LA, in the life I’d built there. Ian and I had talked about it, of course, but he didn’t understand what that kind of shift really meant. He was too invested in corporate life, in the fast pace, in a world that couldn’t coexist with mine. I couldn’t ask him to leave all of that behind for a life here, in a small town where things didn’t move fast and promises of “someday” felt too far off. And then I found out he was cheating on me during our entire relationship.

I broke up with him.

And I hadn’t dated anyone since then. Yes, I hooked up. Not so much here, since the queer community was small, but once a month I’d do the one-and-a-half hour drive to Seattle for some anonymous hookups.

And losing Grandma was an even greater loss. She was the grounding presence in our family. So I couldn’t help but wonder if I was running from the truth about losing a romantic partner coupled with losing someone who was integral to my upbringing and the values I held. And the truth was I was afraid—it was the same fear I saw in Aiden. The fear of vulnerability. The fear of letting someone get close enough to hurt you. The fear of needing someone, and the fear of losing them anyway.