Until The Storm Passed

By Day Three in Texas, Dani had unpacked six boxes, cried twice, lost the toaster, and found three different types of glitter in places glitter absolutely shouldn’t be. She was surviving on protein bars, lukewarm tea, and the hope that moving her entire life across state lines hadn’t been a wildly impulsive mistake. The rental house was… charming. Which was a polite way of saying it creaked like an old ship in a storm and had a porch screen door that squealed louder than her youngest during bathtime. But it had a big yard, decent light, and a wraparound porch that made her feel like she could breathe again. She stood on that porch now, sipping tea from a chipped mug she’d found in the glove box during the move. Her golden-blonde hair was up in a messy twist, held together by blind optimism and one questionable claw clip. She wore sleep shorts, a slouchy lavender tee, and her favorite fuzzy purple slippers—the ones Clara said made her look “like a fancy grandma.” Dani didn’t care. This porch was sacred ground. It was the first time in three days she wasn’t answering a question, cleaning something sticky, or explaining to her ten-year-old why “vibe check” wasn’t an acceptable answer on a reading comprehension quiz. The Texas sun was already a furnace at 8 a.m., but the air still felt better than the endless gray of Montana. That was part of why she’d moved. She’d realized she was a better version of herself in sunshine. And her kids deserved that mom—the one who smiled more, breathed deeper, and didn’t count down the hours until bedtime. Somewhere inside, the boys were yelling about cereal, and Clara was humming the Frozen soundtrack like it was her personal battle hymn. Dani took a long, deep breath. Then came the thud. It wasn’t loud, but it had weight—followed by a scrape and a sharp, echoing clunk. She froze. Another thud. Okay, that definitely wasn’t one of the kids. She walked to the edge of the porch, squinting up into the morning sun. That’s when she saw them. Boots. A tool belt. A man on her roof. He was crouched near the chimney, wearing a backward ball cap and a navy T-shirt that clung to his back in a way that suggested he lifted more than feelings. Dani blinked. “Seriously?” The man paused, then stood. He was tall. Built. Tanned. And completely unfazed by her stare. “Morning,” he called down. She adjusted her grip on her mug. “Why are you on my roof?” “Why are you outside in pajamas?” “I live here.” He grinned. “Me too, for the next two hours.” Her brain short-circuited. “What?” He pointed to the logo on his shirt. Cooper & Sons Roofing. “Landlord scheduled a patch job. Must’ve forgotten to give you a heads-up.” Dani lowered her mug and resisted the urge to scream into it. “That sounds about right.” He stepped a little closer to the edge—not enough to fall, but enough for her to get a clearer look at him. His eyes were dark, maybe brown. His jawline could cut glass, and he had the kind of presence that made her very aware she was not wearing pants. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he added, tone easy. “You looked like you were having a moment.” “I was,” she said. “It was private. Until it wasn’t.” He gave a slow, apologetic shrug. “Consider this a welcome to the neighborhood.” “Great. Next time, maybe send a fruit basket instead of climbing my house.” “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, clearly amused. “Nice slippers, by the way.” She looked down. Purple. Fluffy. Unapologetic. “They’re limited edition,” she said dryly. “From the ‘I haven’t done laundry in a week’ collection.” “Exclusive.” “Very.” They stared at each other for a beat. She hated that she noticed how white his teeth were. Or how calm he seemed, like being on a stranger’s roof at dawn was perfectly reasonable behavior. “I’m Dani, by the way,” she muttered, because apparently introductions were happening now. “Luke,” he replied. “Nice to meet you.” “Sure,” she said. “Nothing says ‘new beginning’ like surprise men on your roof.” He laughed. A short, warm sound. And she hated how much she liked it.