The sound of wood cracking and a series of creative curses had me stopping in my tracks in the kitchen. They were coming from the sunporch. Hunter and his crew had made amazing progress on the art studio, but Brody was still at least a month—maybe two—away from using the space.

I set the full basket of my latest greenhouse haul on the counter and started towards the room that ran along the side of the house. I stopped just outside, listening to Brody’s barely audible mutterings. I itched to cross the threshold, to try and soothe whatever ragged edges I could. It had become habit over the past couple of weeks. Brody and I both leaned on each other, maybe more than we should.

We ate breakfast and dinner together each day. Filled every evening with Yahtzee, cards, or a movie. We talked about everything and nothing. He’d shared that his relationship with his parents was awkward. And at times, painful. I’d watched as his mastery of two dishes in the kitchen had turned to four. I shared stories about my parents. Mostly the good memories that I hadn’t shared with anyone. Brody had grown partial to feeding the chickens and even kept me company when I had to spend a couple of hours tweaking our generator.

Without me thinking much about it, we’d become a unit. We knew each other’s moves before either of us made them. Evergreen had taken to calling us an old married couple. And I tried to ignore the warmth that took root in my chest each time she typed that tease.

I did my best to keep that one final boundary in place, though. The one that didn’t allow for our lips to meet the way I wanted them to, or for Brody’s body to curl around mine in sleep. But I’d let him inside in every other way. And I couldn’t find it in me to scold or chastise myself for it. He’d become too important.

I took another step forward and knocked on the open door. Brody whirled, his eyes a touch wild. I kept moving into his space. Nothing about Brody scared me or gave me a second’s pause. I eyed the broken canvas on the floor. “Testing out those new boots of yours?”

He scowled. “No.”

I arched a brow. “Throwing a temper tantrum?”

“Maybe,” he muttered.

“Talk to me.”

Brody picked up the canvas and tossed it into a mounting pile in the corner. “Nothing feels right. Every time I start a new piece, something’s…off. Like I’m pushing somehow.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know. Maybe I need a break. Or a new career path.”

“Or you need to paint with no set destination in mind.”

“No free passes from you, huh?”