Page 34 of Hometown Touchdown
The realization hits me in waves. The rolled sleeves. The steady hands. The complete lack of need to prove anything to anyone. There’s something about that quiet competence that knocks the air right out of me.
I’ve known Knox since high school. We used to text each other during class, hiding our phones under our desks. We used to sneak out of bedroom windows to steal kisses. I’ve seen him in football pads, tuxedos, and swim trunks. But this? This version of him—crouched in my living room with his sleeves pushed up and his hat backwards like he’s starring in some kind of rugged handyman daydream? It knocks the air out of me.
He’s not even doing anything special. Just working. But I can’t stop watching the way his forearms flex as he adjusts something, or how his jaw tightens when something doesn’t cooperate. The scrape of his calloused palm across the vent cover is barely a sound, but it lands low in my stomach, igniting memories I’ve been trying not to think about.
I swallow hard and sit perfectly still on the couch, like if I move, the fragile thread of my self-control will snap and I’ll say something deeply inappropriate. Something like,What else can those hands fix, Knoxy?
“I didn’t mean for you to come over this late,” I manage, staying a few feet back, arms folded tightly against the chill. “I was just hoping you might have a number for someone.”
He glances up. “Iamthe someone.”
Of course he is.
Without another word, he returns to work, calm and focused. He pulls the cover off the unit and checks the wiring with cleanprecision, testing connections like it’s second nature. There’s no fumbling. Just Knox, in his element, making the cold go away.
I watch from behind the arm of the couch, trying not to look like I’m watching—but I am. Obviously.
“Your igniter’s fine,” he says after a minute. “But the filter’s clogged. Probably tripped the safety shutoff. I’ll swap it out and reset the system.”
“Look at you. Mr. Fix-It.” I force a teasing tone, though I’m painfully aware of how broad his shoulders look from this angle.
He shrugs, still focused. “Built these houses. Figured if I was going to own them, I should know how to take care of them.”
It’s a simple answer, but the weight in his voice lingers. Maybe he’s just talking about the heater. Maybe he’s not. Either way, I suddenly feel warmer than I should in a room that’s still technically cold.
I settle back into the couch, tugging my sleeves down again as if that will keep my thoughts from wandering. But I can’t help noticing the tiny details. The soft clang of his tools, the quiet creak of the vent, the low curse when the flashlight rolls off the toolbox and hits the floor.
It’s all so…domestic. Quiet. Intimate in a way I wasn’t expecting. The kind of moment people don’t usually share with their exes. The kind that feels like something I could get used to, if I wasn’t so afraid of what that meant.
The heater kicks on with a soft whoosh, warm air pushing through the vents and brushing over my ankles.
“There,” he says, standing and wiping his hands on his jeans. “You should be good for the night. I’ll bring a new filter by tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I say, quieter than I mean to.
He doesn’t leave right away. Just stands there, glancing around like he’s taking inventory of the room—or maybe of me.I catch the way his lips part slightly, like he’s about to speak, before he thinks better of it.
Then, just a small nod. “Text me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
He leaves with the same kind of quiet he arrived in. The door clicks softly behind him, and the room is suddenly warm in more ways than one. But all I can feel is the echo of him. The scent of fall air still lingering.
I sink deeper into the cushions and pull the blanket up to my chin, trying to steady my breathing.
There’s no pretending now.
I’m in trouble.
Because it’s not the heater that made me sweat through my shirt. It’s the man who just walked out my door—the one who fixed my furnace like it was nothing, then left with those stupidly capable hands like he didn’t just upend my entire night.
I curl my arms around myself, grounding myself how I can, and stare at the front door long after it’s closed—half-expecting, half-hoping it’ll swing open again and undo me all over again.
My phone is within reach, and there’s only one person I can text right now. The one person who won’t judge me when I admit that I almost had a meltdown over a pair of forearms and a damn crescent wrench.
Three dots come through seconds later.
I swallow, texting with shaking thumbs.
