That evening, after the crew left, Juniper approached Wesley as he secured tools.
“You are changing their lives,” she said. “You are becoming part of their days. They will get attached. I will get attached. What then?”
Wesley leaned on the truck. “Then we figure it out. Slowly. One morning at a time.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It is not. It terrifies me.”
Juniper’s voice dropped. “Me too.”
He reached for her hand but stopped, letting the invitation hang unfulfilled. She surprised him by closing the distance herself, just enough for their fingers to touch.
“I might still love you,” she confessed. “I wish I did not. It would be simpler.”
“I am not asking for easy. I am asking for a chance to prove I will not run.”
The house was finished six weeks later. Fresh paint. New windows. A porch swing. A kitchen big enough for all the laughter that had been missing.
Juniper stood in the doorway, eyes shining. “It feels like a home again.”
Wesley exhaled. “What happens now?”
She looked at Wren and Poppy, who were already arguing playfully over bedroom assignments. Then she looked back at him. “Now you stay. Not as a promise. As a choice. Every day.”
He nodded. “I can do that.”