Chapter Text
Back to square fucking one.
Frustration bubbled up from your chest like a kettle left on the stove for too long. The kind that rattled the lid, steamed up the kitchen windows, and hissed between your clenched teeth.
You slammed your coffee mug onto the counter. A little too hard. The ceramic clinked, and the coffee sloshed over the rim, dripping down your fingers and staining the formica like the universe was personally mocking you.
Perfect.
You let out a tight breath and turned to the window—sorta similar to the one you stared out of eighteen years before bolting for something bigger, louder, brighter.
New York City had been a dream with sharp edges and sleepless nights, and for a long time, it had fit you like a glove. Chaos, creativity, power in pressed blazers and patent leather heels. You thrived in the buzz of it. The late nights. The nonstop spin of success and survival.
But now?
Now the world moved at a crawl. Back in Austin. Back in the house you swore you'd never live in again. Back to the same view of cracked pavement, swaying oak trees, and the faded red mailbox your dad refused to replace in his new home.
The silence here wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating.
You used to wake up to taxi horns, to sirens, to street vendors arguing in five different languages. Now you woke up to cicadas. A mourning dove. Maybe the occasional lawn mower.
You hated how easy it was to fall back into the old rhythms, how your body remembered every creaky floorboard in a home. How the closet still smelled like summer sweat. How the ghosts of your past life live in every drawer, photograph, and unopened yearbook brought from your old house.
You wrapped your hands around your coffee mug again, trying to steady the simmering nerves. The bitter heat bit at your palms.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be bulletproof. Unshakeable. You’d built something real—an actual career, a damn name for yourself.
“Hey, Sugar Cubes… You headin’ in to Tommy’s?”
You pressed your eyes shut, letting the steam from your coffee rise into your face, warm and grounding. Inhale. Exhale. You weren’t ready yet—not for cheerfulness, not for small talk.
But still, you managed to smooth your expression, open your eyes, and turn toward your dad with a practiced smile.
“Yeah, soon,” you said. “First day.”
He stood at the archway between the kitchen and living room, his old work shirt hanging off his shoulders and a cup of black coffee in his hand, just like always.
Different house, same mornings, same gentle concern in his eyes. But time had moved forward. His face had aged like paper left in the sun—creased and faded, delicate around the edges. His hair, the exact same texture as yours, was more white than anything else now. A soft shock of it stuck up in the back where he must’ve slept on it wrong.
He looked smaller than you remembered. Or maybe you just felt bigger now.
“Don’t have to take this job if it don’t feel right,” he said, always trying to give you an out. “Ain’t no shame in restin’ a lil while longer.”
You let out a quiet breath and leaned against the counter.
“Can’t afford to rest,” you murmured, tracing the rim of your mug with a thumb. “Besides, Tommy’s doing me a favor. I can’t exactly say no to that.”
He nodded, but you saw the way his brow pinched, the worry tightening behind his eyes. He never said it out loud, but you knew he hated that you’d come back here with nothing. No job. No apartment. No real plan. Just a suitcase and a resume that had gone from gold to dead weight in a matter of weeks.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.
No. Not even a little. But you smiled again anyway.
“I’m great.”
The words tasted like ambition and ashes.
He reached out, gently squeezing your shoulder as he passed. “You always land on your feet,” he said, voice warm with pride and sorrow. “That’s your gift.”
You watched him settle into his worn armchair by the window, the same one he used to sit in while you did your homework at the kitchen table, and for a second, just a second, you felt twelve again. Small and uncertain. Afraid of everything you didn’t know.
But you weren’t twelve. And fear didn’t control you anymore. Not anymore
You glanced at the clock. Six-thirty.
You gritted your teeth.
Tommy had told you to come in later—closer to ten—but your body still was honed. Wake up. Workout. Eat breakfast. Check your inbox. Scroll LinkedIn. Pretend like you still had a fast-paced, demanding life to rush off to. God, how did you ever do it?
Your dad looked up at you from his spot, his gaze settling on your face as the thoughts in your head spiraled too fast to catch.
“Sugar,” he said carefully, “Wanna head out with me? Gotta meet some of the guys, run a few errands. Could split it up?”
Part of you wanted to crawl back under the covers and let the day pass without consequence. But the other part—the one you were trying to wake back up—wanted motion. A reason to breathe fresh air. This could be your reset. Something simple to pull you out of the haze.
“Sure, Dad. Lemme change real quick..”
He blinked, as if surprised you’d actually said yes. It was fair, lately, you hadn’t been in the mood for much of anything.
“Alright, sweetheart. Take your time.”
As he stepped outside, humming to himself, you stood there a moment longer. You looked down at your mug—half-empty, lukewarm now—and set it in the sink with a soft clink. Then you turned down the hallway.
Your dad’s spare room—the one you’d been crashing in since you got back—was a complete mess.
The suitcase you'd packed with such careful precision had exploded days ago, spilling clothes across the floor like it refused to stay folded and contained. Your makeup was spread out over the dresser, and your brushes and compacts were organized only in the way that made sense to you.
You threw on a black t-shirt and a pair of old black shorts. Mismatched socks followed. Not exactly your usual look, but the Texas heat didn’t care about style. It didn’t care about anything.
The second you landed in Austin, you bought your first pair of shorts from one of those overpriced airport kiosks. No point trying to fight it.
Once outside, the heat hit you first—sticky and immediate—but the sun’s rays felt good, a slow thaw against the constant chill of your mood. The sky was that endless stretch of blue you’d always taken for granted.
You spotted your dad before he saw you. He was leaning against the hood of his ancient truck, head tilted up, eyes shut like he was trying to soak in the peace before the world came knocking again. You pressed your lips together.
He’d always been a nature guy. Still was, even now, with the way his back creaked when he stood too fast and his knees gave out on cold mornings.
He used to talk about hiking the Rockies for a week, off the grid. Said it helped him breathe again. During his time in the army, he saw so many corners of the world—the Middle East, South America, bits of Asia—and even with everything he went through, everything he lost, he said the land always managed to quiet him.
"Mother Nature knows how to speak to a man’s soul," he used to say. You never quite believed him.
“Dad, let’s go.” you called out, jogging the last few steps toward the driveway. His eyes snapped open, surprisingly quick for someone his age.
“Quick, huh?” he said with a grin, already pulling open the passenger door. “I thought you’d stall another hour, maybe check your emails six more times.”
You rolled your eyes. “Already did. There’s nothing left to reply to but spam.”
He chuckled and thumped his hand against the door as you slipped into the driver’s seat. The truck rumbled to life, like it was mad about being woken up too early.
“Where are we heading?” you asked, adjusting the air vents to full blast. Your thighs were already sticking to the seat.
“Gotta stop by the supply store first,” he said, strapping in. “Then I promised I’d help Gary fix that busted shed of his.”
The drive didn’t take long. Even though Austin wasn’t your hometown, you still managed to learn the roads pretty quickly. What else was there to do when it got late and you were sobbing into your pillow? Your dad only needed to point once at a turn you almost missed, his thumb jerking casually to the right.
“Still got it,” you muttered.
“‘Course you do,” he said with a little pride in his voice. “Ain’t like this place changes much. Might as well be frozen in time.”
You were about to agree when his voice changed—lightened, took on that familiar mischief. “Ah, look who it is,” he drawled, sitting up straighter in his seat as you approached a stop sign. His tone was positively gleeful. “Motherfuckin’ Martian. Slow down, Sugar. I wanna yell at him for a sec—”
You gave him a side-eye but eased your foot onto the brake. “Dad…”
But it was too late. The man—mid-sixties, baseball cap too low over his face, riding a beat-up lawnmower on the edge of the sidewalk—looked up just as your dad leaned half out of the window.
“HEY, MARTIAN! Still mowin’ the wrong side’a the street like a jackass?”
The man didn’t miss a beat. He raised one middle finger in the air without looking back, still cruising slow as hell down the curb. “Kiss ass, dipshit!”
“Love you too!” your dad called after him, grinning.
You shook your head, trying not to smile. “ You can’t yell at your army buddies like that, someone will get the wrong idea. You’re gonna get us arrested.”
“For what? Affection?” he chuckled, settling back into the seat. “Been yellin’ at that bastard for thirty years. Helps keep my lungs young.”
“You need hobbies,” you muttered, hitting the gas again and turning down the next street.
“We got hobbies,” he said. “They’re jus’ all built ‘round insultin’ each other. Real masculine bondin’.”
You laughed under your breath and pulled into the gravel lot of the local supply store. The place had a sun-bleached wooden sign above the door, a crooked stack of firewood out front, a rusty cart someone never returned properly, half-blocking a parking spot.
A long sigh slipped out of you as you grabbed your keys and hopped down from the driver’s seat.
Twirling your keys on your fingers, you tugged idly at the keychains like muscle memory. Your old apartment key from New York and a tag with your initial etched into leather. And, one of them was new—Tommy had given you one shaped like a tiny hammer when you got hired, a joke about “building something new.”
Talking to Tommy more frequently was strange
Your dad rounded the front of the truck, adjusting his ball cap as he looked at the store entrance. “Think I’ll check for nails and dog food. You good out here?”
You nodded, eyes scanning the storefront. “Yeah. I’ll just explore for a bit.”
He gave a little nod and wandered off toward the lumber side of the store, waving to someone who called out to him from across the lot.
You headed toward the entrance, keys swinging loosely from your fingers, pulling at the fraying strings of a keychain you’d had since college. The hum of old neon and the scent of sunbaked asphalt filled the air.
Just as you reached for the door handle, it swung open fast, right in your direction.
“Shit—sorry,” the man muttered, stepping aside to give you room.
You jolted back half a step, instinctively raising your hand like a shield. The man caught the door with his forearm before it could fully swing at you again. He held it there, angled open, waiting.
You blinked up at him as he held the heavy door steady. You ducked underneath the crook of his elbow, and the faintest brush of your shoulder grazed his chest as you stepped inside.
“Thanks…” you murmured, not looking at him.
But the scent hit you immediately, smoke. Not heavy, not stale. Fresh. Like someone had just flicked their cigarette out a few minutes ago, and the smell still clung to their clothes.
You wrinkled your nose. Smoking was—what? Unprofessional. Annoying. Gave you headaches. Gave people cancer. And yet… it lingered in a way that made you glance back over your shoulder.
The man was already turning, his boots thudding against the concrete as he made his way toward the open bed of a nearby work truck.
You couldn’t see his face—just the square set of his shoulders, the way he moved with that easy, grounded kind of purpose. Tall. Broad. Familiar in the way all men in old work shirts and sun-faded jeans seemed familiar out here.
Whatever.
You let it go with a breath through your nose and stepped inside, the whoosh of air conditioning instantly wrapping around your legs like a blessing. Cool air blew up your thighs and fluttered the hem of your shorts. You sighed in relief.
Fluorescent lights hummed above, casting a dull glow over shelves stocked with tools, wire spools, tarps, gloves—stuff that screamed manual labor, not marketing strategy. You ducked into an aisle, letting the shade of it wrap around you. The rows stretched long in every direction, the kind of place where you could disappear if you wanted.
Your wallet was a weight in your pocket. Heavier than usual. All that New York salary you’d squirreled away like a little survivalist still sat in your savings account. You could buy whatever you wanted, really. A toolkit, overpriced boots you didn’t need, maybe even that industrial-strength fan that looked like it belonged on a runway.
God, you hadn’t splurged on anything in weeks. Maybe months.
Your fingers twitched toward a shelf.
You blinked hard, like that would shake the reality back into focus. No guarantees, not with this job, not with this life. You were in limbo. Not quite the corporate version of yourself, not quite someone new. Just wandering.
And speaking of wandering, you didn’t realize how far you'd drifted until you were deep in the back of the store, where the lighting dimmed a little and the air smelled faintly of cedar and motor oil.
A noise caught your ear. A low voice. Familiar.
“Hey, stranger.”
You made a startled noise, whipping around. Warm, brown, familiar eyes were the first thing you saw.
“Tommy!” You nearly squealed, clasping your hands together. “Shit, you scared me.”
He stood there with that same boyish grin, eyes crinkled at the corners, a soft mustache beginning to shadow his upper lip. Time had added a few creases to his face, sure, but the way he looked at you hadn’t changed one bit—like you were still that girl from high school who knew how to talk her way out of detention.
You stepped forward and gave him a hug, a long squeeze that said everything without saying anything. He smelled like sawdust and sunshine.
“I didn’t expect to see you here this early,” you said, pulling back.
He chuckled. “Didn’t expect you either. Thought you weren’t comin’ in ‘til later.”
You shrugged, fingers twitching around the hem of your shirt. “Just tagging along with my dad. Needed to get out of the house.”
And it was true. Your mornings had become long stretches of nothing—waking up early like your body still expected an inbox full of meetings and tasks and fires to put out.
Now, you filled it with workouts, emails that led nowhere, and half-hearted job searches. Sometimes, just refreshing LinkedIn until your fingers hurt.
God, you used to love LinkedIn. You kept it sharp and pristine—each promotion, each glowing recommendation added like precious beads on a string. You were obnoxiously proud of it. But when the media hit, when the whole company turned its back on you like rotting trash, it took you a full week to change your status.
‘Seeking new position’.
Those ugly little words sat under your name like a bruise.
You’d still checked your inbox, though. A part of you hoped someone—anyone—would tell you it was all a mistake. That your office was waiting, that your desk plant hadn’t died, that they needed you back.
Radio silence.
Until Tommy.
His message had come on a rainy afternoon when you were three days deep into wearing the same hoodie and contemplating running away. The notification buzzed at the top of your screen:
It’s been a minute since we talked, stranger.
Since you changed your number a while back, I figured LinkedIn was the only way to keep tabs on you.
Look, I don’t know what happened over there, and I ain’t gonna pry, but we’re expanding the business.
Could use someone like you. Marketing, organization—hell, just someone who knows what a spreadsheet is.
No pressure. But if you’ve got the time, let’s grab coffee.
You stared at the message for twenty minutes, breathing hard enough to fog the screen.
Part of you was worried the years apart would’ve stretched too wide between you. That the easy friendship you once had with Tommy—once so natural, so comforting—might now feel strained or artificial. Not that you couldn’t fake it; you could always scrounge up charm when necessary.
But you knew Tommy. If things fell flat, if he looked at you with pity or confusion or distance… it would gut you.
But when you finally met up, it was like pressing play on a paused tape. One cup of burnt diner coffee, and suddenly you were laughing about, stories like no time had passed at all.
He told you about Maria, his wife. You could practically feel the love when he said her name. He pulled up pictures on his phone, each one more idyllic than the last: sunlit porch swings, lake days, soft glances between the two of them that made your heart twist with a strange, layered ache.
You were happy for him. So happy.
And guilty. You missed his wedding. It was on Valentines day, the cutest, most romantic, Tommy thing he could’ve done. Yet, you couldn’t go. There were things on your mind.
People you didn’t want to see.
And maybe a little bit of jealousy. Like his life had flourished and bloomed while yours had just become sharp and rich.
Then, almost as casually as asking if you needed a refill, Tommy offered you the job.
You blinked at him across the table, steam curling off the rim of your chipped mug.
“A job?” you repeated, stunned.
Tommy leaned back, arms crossed, like he’d expected this reaction.
“Yeah. Real job. Paycheck, office—well, more like a desk in the corner of our crappy buildin’ for now. But we’re legit. Got permits, contracts, and a real crew. Joel and I’ve been runnin’ things solid for a couple of years now, and Maria’s been helpin’ where she can. But we need more hands. Marketing. Paperwork that ain’t stained with motor oil.”
You laughed weakly. “You know I’m not a secretary, right?”
“Hell no,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I’m askin’ you to help run things. We’re expandin’. We need someone who knows how to make us known and get us out of the Dark Ages. And from what I heard from your Dad, you're the best at that.”
Your stomach flipped. He meant it. No past tense, no pity, no charity. Just belief. Real belief—something you hadn’t felt in weeks.
Still, fear scratched at the back of your throat. You didn’t want to screw this up. Not with him.
“I don’t know, Tommy,” you murmured, fingers tightening around your cup. “I’m still figuring things out. And… my reputation would stain your company. It was bad.”
“I’ll take whatever you have. All of ya.” Tommy met your eyes with such determination that it burned away at your worries.
So you trusted him and signed the papers right then and there.
“How’d you find me?” you asked, glancing down the aisle. The store buzzed with quiet morning movement—carts creaking, country music playing over old speakers.
“Caught your dad out front. Said you were explorin’. Figured I’d come rescue you ‘fore you wandered into the plumbin’ section and disappeared forever.”
You shook your head fondly. “God forbid.”
Tommy kept talking, juggling a pack of gloves and what looked like a crushed granola bar wrapper. “Your day for us hasn’t even started yet, and we’ve already been to three different stores.”
“That’s terrible,” you muttered, falling into step beside him as he headed toward the checkout. “Sacrifices for the company.”
“Better be worth it. Been up since five.”
You raised your eyebrows. “And what, pray tell, was worth a dawn patrol across half of Texas?”
He scoffed, gesturing dramatically as he brought you around the corner to where two carts waited—each loaded haphazardly with what appeared to be… an aggressive amount of caulk.
“Caulk. Fuckin caulk.” He shook his head like it personally betrayed him. “Our supplier’s a damn scammer. Inconsistent as hell, but he’s the cheapest we got.”
You blinked at the piles of tubes. White. Grey. Sandstone. Smooth. Textured. All caps yelling: FLEXIBLE SEALANT. The word stared at you like a curse.
“Oh,” you said flatly. “So this is… this is what kept you up so early.”
Tommy groaned. “Don’t judge me. This is hell.”
You crossed your arms and tilted your head. “I’m not judging. I’m just saying… if I had to spend my morning chasing down caulk, I too might want to tear my hair out.”
There was a pause.
He cleared his throat. “It’s not this bad. Don’t be discouraged.”
“I’m not discouraged,” you said with mock-seriousness. “Just emotionally unprepared for a future full of… sealant talk.”
He laughed, tossing the gloves into the cart before turning back to load the endless tubes of caulk onto the conveyor belt. The checkout lady looked like she was mentally dissociating, staring down the line of identical packaging.
“I missed this,” Tommy said suddenly, voice a touch quieter than before. “Your humor, I mean.”
“Nothing crazy about it.” You shrugged, grabbing a few more tubes to help. “You’ve just grown dependent on it.”
“That I have,” he said with a smirk.
By the time the checkout process was done—and the register groaned under the weight of sixty-some tubes of sealant—your phone buzzed: seven-fourty-five.
The bell above the door chimed, and your dad wandered in, carrying everything he needed. He caught sight of Tommy instantly and broke into a broad, familiar grin.
“Well, look who’s been reunited!” your dad said, striding forward.
Tommy barely had time to set his wallet down before your dad pulled him into a bear hug, patting his back like he was burping a baby. You smirked as Tommy went a little red, but didn’t pull away.
“Son, how are you?”
“I’m good, thanks for askin’, Mr. Clyde,” Tommy said, muffled slightly by your dad’s shoulder.
“Ah, I’ve told you to stop callin’ me that now that your older,” your dad pulled back, still smiling. “A simple Clyde will do. Or hell—jus’ ‘sir,’ if you want to be polite and efficient.”
Tommy chuckled. “Yes, sir.”
“Ever the joker, this one.” Your dad slapped Tommy’s shoulder before grabbing one of the two carts.
“You both see each other all the time. Why do you talk like you haven’t spoken in years? You went to his house for dinner two days ago, Dad.”
Your dad just shrugged as he pushed open the door, stepping into the heat. “A new day, Sugar Cube, means new memories. Greet everyone like it’s your first time seein’ them in a long time. What my commander used to say.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing the receipt as the cart wheels groaned under the weight. Tommy took the lead, guiding you both outside, back into the blazing Texas morning. The light hit you square in the face, and you squinted, shielding your eyes.
“Now, where is that brother of yours?” your dad asked as he looked around. “Never comes around anymore.”
You stared harder at the receipt.
“He’s here,” Tommy answered easily, scanning the lot. “Sarah keeps his hands full in his free time. Either workin’ or parentin’, not much in between.”
“Respectable.”
“He actually left the store a little early to go get gas… guess the man disappeared on me.”
Huh, the price of chalk seemed to get hit by inflation.
“You two go on, enjoy your mornin’. Joel and I can deal with the rest.” Tommy glanced over his shoulder to the intersection, looking for him.
“Alright, son. Text me if you need anythin’ else,” your dad said, pulling Tommy into one last hug before turning toward his truck.
You followed, waving back. “I know you don’t know how to operate text, right?”
Your dad arched an eyebrow. “Sugar Cube, do I look like the type of man to trick someone into textin’ me, then never respond, and blame it on my old age?”
“Yes. You absolutely do.”
He rounded the front of the truck, pausing to look at you over the hood. A slow grin spread across his face.
“Good. Then it’s workin’.”
❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜
“Hello, my name is… ah, that’s so shit.”
You groaned, running a brush through your hair as you stared down at your reflection. Your mirror—smudged at the corners—stared back at you.
“Hi, I’m the woman who used to run marketing campaigns with budgets bigger than your yearly revenue. Now I alphabetize tools and make mood boards for plywood.”
You grimaced at your own sarcasm and shook your head.
You were trying to psych yourself up. You had no idea what Tommy was going to have you do there. Were you immediately going to jump into meetings? Were you going to be running a full campaign? The possibilities were endless and sickening.
Your phone buzzed from the counter.
[TOMMY]: The whole team is grateful for the caulk. Never seen so many grown men jump for joy.
You snorted, laughter bubbling up despite the nerves buzzing beneath your skin.
[YOU]: I’m glad. I’d hate for my first day to be surrounded by grumpy men with power tools.
[TOMMY]: Speaking of your first day, the team and I have to head out soon after you get here. You’ll be on your own for most of the day, but just brainstorm a few ideas for us to come back to.
You paused, reading the message twice. Alone? On day one?
[YOU]: You keep saying “the team” like it’s some big squad. Who is that exactly???
[TOMMY]: Right. Never introduced you…
[TOMMY]: Really, it’s just me and Joel. We’ve got twenty guys on the ground, but in the office? Just us. Maybe the receptionist? Well, now you.
Ah. Joel.
It had been years since you'd seen him—really seen him. You didn’t want to think about him. New start, not a look back through the past. Not that kind of story.
Co-workers with some drama is all.
You focused back on your chat with Tommy.
[YOU]: So basically, I’m the new girl in a very intense treehouse club.
[TOMMY]: Basically.
[TOMMY]: But with fewer snacks and more caulk.
[YOU]: Can’t wait.
You tossed your phone on the bed and returned to your mirror, finally settling on the smallest, simplest thing that felt like you.
“Hi,” you whispered to your reflection. “I'm here to make your life easier.”
You picked yourself up. That would have to do.
Slipping your arms through the sleeves of your blazer, you gave yourself one last once-over in the mirror. Thank God you’d managed to pack at least one decent suit before fleeing New York.
The black blazer was tailored, sharp against your shoulders, with a silk button-up tucked neatly underneath. You’d swapped the pencil skirt for matching straight-leg pants—practical, but still pulled-together.
Professional, without trying too hard.
You crouched beside your bed and double-checked your bag. Laptop, printed résumé, a few stray pages of brainstormed campaign ideas you’d scribbled down after you got back from the store. Everything was there.
With a quiet breath, you moved to the stairs, heels clicking softly against the hardwood. As you passed by the living room, your dad looked up from the recliner, cereal bowl in hand, cartoons blaring like it was a Saturday in ‘89.
“Well, damn. Thought you were goin’ to the office, not the White House.”
“Just making a good first impression.”
He nodded, eyes twinkling. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”
You smiled again, nerves curling in your stomach, but steadied by his faith. He turned back to the TV, and you opened the front door.
Back inside the truck, you pull out of your driveway, the tires crunching over gravel as you ease into the familiar hum of Texas roads. The sun was climbing now, casting long beams across sleepy neighborhoods. You drummed your fingers on the steering wheel, your thoughts circling the day ahead.
Tommy’s workplace.
Your new workplace.
You’d seen the address on the web last night—some converted warehouse off the highway with a fresh coat of beige paint and a DIY logo slapped on the side. Not exactly Madison Avenue, but maybe that was the point. Less bullshit. More work. The kind of place where your ideas might actually matter again.
You exhaled slowly, turning onto the frontage road, heart tapping against your ribs. The parking lot was filled with cars—minivans with sunshades still in the windows, beat-up work trucks coated in a fine layer of dust, and a couple of little sedans that looked like they’d been held together by duct tape.
You pulled into one of the further spots, giving yourself a moment of quiet before the plunge. Keys clicked, engine off. For a second, you just sat there with your hands on the wheel, watching the distant roll of men in safety vests moving in and out of the bay doors, shouting over forklifts and banter.
Just do it.
Heels clacked softly against the concrete as you made your way toward the front office. You weaved between toolboxes, carts, and loose extension cords that looked like trip hazards waiting to happen.
A few men near a loading truck glanced your way, then did double-takes—one even elbowed the guy next to him, murmuring something with a smirk. You kept your eyes ahead, posture straight.
This wasn’t your place.
But you’d be damned if you didn’t make it yours.
You pushed through one of the front doors, smelling a faint scent of coffee, dust, and something vaguely metallic. Immediately as you walk in, you see an L-shaped desk with a dusty monitor, papers stacked along the edge like teetering Jenga towers. A floor fan was fighting for its life in the corner.
You stood there for a moment, trying to decide whether to find someone or wander aimlessly
Then, Tommy popped his head out from a door, already grinning.
“Damn,” he said, sweeping his gaze over your suit like it might bite him. “Didn’t realize we were hostin’ a Fortune 500 presentation today.”
You smiled tightly. “Gotta make an entrance.”
“Well, you made one,” he chuckled, walking over and pulling you into a quick one-armed hug. “Ignore the looks from the guys. I think half of them thought someone from OSHA showed up to shut us down.”
You snorted. “Good. Fear keeps them sharp.”
He motioned for you to follow him through a narrow hallway. “We don’t have much offices. That’ll change… maybe, but for now, I’ve managed to fix somethin’ for you.”
Tommy pushed open a door to reveal what looked like a small break room that had been aggressively repurposed.
A folding table served as a desk, complete with a creaky office chair. A dusty whiteboard clung to the wall with scribbles from god-knows-when. One side had a mini fridge and a microwave that looked like it came from 2000.
But there was a window.
And sunlight filtered in, soft and golden, landing right where your laptop would sit.
“It’s not much,” Tommy said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s quiet, and it’s yours. We’ll get you what you need, jus’ let me know.”
“I’ve worked with worse.”
Tommy lingered in the doorway, watching you as you entered. You walked around the perimeter of the room, fingers grazing the edge of the folding table before you dumped your bag onto the creaky office chair. The space wasn’t much—hell, it barely looked legal—but it was yours for now.
“You're responsible. I’m sure you’ll make somethin’ out of this?”
“I am, aren’t I?” You joked, tossing your hair.
“Tommy, ready to head out?”
He turned toward the voice before you did.
A woman stood in the hallway, arms crossed over a large portfolio and sunglasses perched atop her head like a crown. She looked polished, but not stiff—worn boots with clean jeans and a light blouse rolled at the sleeves. Her presence was casual, but purposeful. And from the way Tommy straightened up, you could tell she held her weight in the room.
“Maria,” he greeted, already moving toward her. “I was tellin’ you ‘bout my friend from Arlington. Childhood, friends from diapers. Finally roped her into the chaos.”
Maria's gaze flicked over to you, assessing, then softened into a slight smile. She stepped toward you, holding out her hand. You took it, noting her strong handshake, “Great meeting you finally.”
“Likewise,” You return her smile, “I can’t wait to start working here.”
Maria crossed her arms. “You’ll learn fast—chaos is kind of their thing. You settling in alright?”
“As much as you can in a place where the printer makes sounds like it’s dying.”
“That printer’s older than most of our guys,” Maria muttered, before nodding to Tommy. “C’mon, we’ve gotta head to the lot before things start falling apart.”
“Ah shit,” Tommy rubbed his chin, “Here, I’ll shoot a quick text to Joel, and he can do you tour. You’re cool with that, right?”
“Of course,” You lied, but waved your hands to swat away Tommy’s concerns. “Do whatever you need to. It’ll be great catching up with him as well.”
Tommy turned back to you briefly as he headed to the door, concern still laced on his features. “You’ve got everythin’ you need? Connects decent, coffee’s...passable.”
“I’ll manage,” you said, giving a mock salute as you settled back into your chair.
Maria leaned slightly over Tommy’s shoulder before they left. “You don’t seem like the type to waste time. I like that.”
You offered a small smile.
“I try not to.”
The door clicked shut behind them, and silence returned to the office, interrupted only by the hum of the A/C and the faint beeping of a forklift outside.
You glanced around, finally alone, and opened a file labeled “Old Client Proposals – 2001”.
Your phone buzzed.
[TOMMY]: Joel’s got notes in the old pitch folders if you need inspo.
[TOMMY]: Just… be prepared.
[TOMMY]: He’s not exactly a man of brevity.
[YOU]: He ran your marketing?
[TOMMY]: Barely.
Joel’s handwriting. Slanted, a little erratic, all capital letters like he was trying to make up for the fact that he refused to type anything out. Red pen. Underlines. Circles. Entire sentences like “DON’T USE BLUE HERE—FEELS LIKE A FUNERAL” scrawled across the bottom of a mock-up.
You turned another page. Notes were written directly onto a glossy photo of a finished kitchen:
Client said she wanted it to feel like home. Not a hosptial. This is sterile. No character. Add wood grain. Fix the damn lighting.
Well, this made it harder for you. They did a little bit of everything—residential, commercial, interior tweaks, full structural rebuilds. It was hard to build off such a broad and constantly shifting brand. No clear voice.
Still, the work spoke for itself. The builds were solid, clean, and personal. Even through the photocopies and faded pictures, you could feel the intention behind each one.
You stood and stretched, arms over your head, and turned toward the whiteboard mounted across the wall. Blank. Waiting.
You picked up the nearest dry-erase marker and began jotting down ideas.
“What does this place feel like?” you whispered aloud to yourself. “What should it feel like?”
You divided it easily: slogans, tactics, online presence.
Ideas came back like second nature, your pen flying across the whiteboard. You slipped into that old rhythm—campaign flowcharts, rollout phases, brand archetypes.
Words like “trust,” “longevity,” and “grit” circled at the center. You pulled in sticky notes from your bag and started labeling things: digital revamp, local features, a possible blog angle. “Behind the Build” had a nice ring to it.
“Ready for your tour?”
Your pen slipped out of your hand before you gripped it again. That voice.
Joel.
Leaning against the door frame like you never left.
Years gone, and he looked it. Broader, older, sun carving deep lines into his face. Gray streaked his beard, his hair. Same eyes, though. Same eyes you grew up with.
Same eyes you fought. Same eyes you would’ve killed for. Same eyes that burned you straight through.
“Joel.”
Your name for him came out flat, a statement, not a greeting.
“Hey.” His tone was the same as yours. He gave the faintest nod, almost cautious. “Been a while.”
“Just a bit.”
His nostrils flared at that. Too much, reel it back.
The room felt too small, like the walls were listening. You cleared your throat, gesturing to the whiteboard. “I was just… getting some ideas down.”
He didn’t respond, though his eyes darted from your face, to your hair, to your face again, then your outfit and shoes and every part of your body. You felt too exposed. Too open.
You cleared your throat.
“Well. Suppose you’re here to show me around?”
“‘Pose I am,” he said, his voice low, unreadable.
The tension was thick enough to choke on. You put the marker on the whiteboard and moved past him, your shoulder brushing his arm, and it felt like static sparking between you. He didn’t budge.
The hallway yawned quiet as he walked a step ahead of you, pointing things out like a man forced at gunpoint.
“Storage.”
“Workshop.”
“Conference room.”
You made a mental note of each spot, but mostly, you watched him. He moved with the kind of casual authority that came from years of doing the same thing every day. No showmanship. No sales pitch.
“Riveting commentary,” you muttered under your breath after he showed you Tommy’s office.
His head turned, slow, sharp. “Didn’t realize you came for my commentary. Thought you were here for the job.”
“Relax. I didn’t come back for you.”
He hummed on that, as if filing that away in that big head of his. Whatever, he can mill on what he needs to. Instead, you both silently finished the tour and started heading back to your office.
When you stepped inside, you thought you were finally able to breathe. But Joel didn’t move for the door. He lingered in the frame, arms crossed, eyes roaming the whiteboard like he was trying to decipher it.
“Tommy says you’re good. Said you’ve got ideas.”
“I do.”
“Learned it in New York? In college?”
“Whole reason I went.”
“Whole?”
You bit back a snarl. Was he baiting you? Real petty of him to try to do so on your first day. But you didn’t spend years learning how men kept their emotions so poorly in check, for Joel of all people to get underneath your skin.
Instead, you picked up your marker.
“Whole.”
“You sure?” He continued. Why was he still talking to you?
You sucked in a breath, but your voice stayed steady.
“Thanks for the unsolicited character assessment, Joel. Really. If you’re done diagnosing me with my old teenage attitude, I have work to do.”
“Just callin’ it like I saw it.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“I left to build something of myself. I worked my ass off to be good at it. And now, I’ll be using those skills for Tommy. Not for anyone else.”
Joel’s jaw worked, like he was biting back a response.
“I’ve changed,” you said again, firmer this time. “And if that bothers you, that’s your problem.”
For a second—just one—he looked like he might say something different.
But he just blinked, jaw tensing. “Tommy wants your ideas by three-thirty,” he said over his shoulder, voice flat. “Don’t be late.”
The door didn’t slam, but it felt like it did. The click echoed through the room like punctuation.
You stared at the floorboards for a beat too long, trying to push down the flush of adrenaline. Of heat. Of pure, sharp frustration.
He hadn’t changed. Not one damn bit. Still the same grudge-holding, tight-lipped, self-righteous man he’d always been. The same one who had been in your life for over a decade, had bled you dry, yet still felt entitled to pick apart your choices like he knew you.
Thirteen years gone. Thirteen years of separation, of silence, of nothing between you both.
You gripped your pen harder and pressed.
And he deserved every bit of it.