Rebuilding What We Left Behind

CHAPTER SIX

Nova’s POV

The morning started like most mornings: with the shrill betrayal of my alarm clock. I groaned, smacking it off before it could complete its operatic scream. My room was still half in shadow, the curtains filtering the first pale light of day into muted strips across the floor. I rolled onto my side and stared at the ceiling, willing the day to disappear entirely, like some magic trick that hadn’t quite worked yet.

Coffee had to happen first. Survival 101. I trudged to the kitchen, groaning as I dug the filter and coffee grounds out of the cabinet. As the machine hissed to life, I rubbed my eyes and stared at my reflection in the window. My hair was sticking up in angles that defied physics, and my eyes were too heavy with sleep. Professionalism would require effort today.

I didn’t have time to debate my outfit—because, of course, the universe doesn’t care about my internal chaos. I reached for my black tailored blazer, white blouse, and the pair of trousers that could pass as both professional and casual. Shoes were a compromise; black heels, worn just enough that they didn’t scream “I’m trying too hard.” I brushed my teeth, pulled my hair into a low, controlled ponytail, and gave my reflection one last appraisal. The woman staring back at me looked capable. Efficient. Untouchable. Perfect Nova.

The client email dinged on my phone as I finished putting on a thin layer of makeup. Half-finished property. Full design vision needed. Site visit at nine. A quick scroll through the photos made my heart beat a little faster—exposed beams, bare floors, and a house that felt like a blank canvas waiting to be claimed. A thrill ran through me. I loved projects like this, the kind that required vision, the kind that could be sculpted into something extraordinary with the right touch.

I packed my tablet and sketchbook into my briefcase, grabbed my coffee, and shoved a granola bar into my bag for breakfast on the go. There wasn’t time for slow, thoughtful meals when there were houses to design. I took a deep breath and repeated the mantra I always said to myself before diving into a client meeting: Professional. Calm. Efficient. Untouchable.

The drive was quiet, the streets barely stirring yet. I mentally ran through my pitch, the points I wanted to make about design flow, space utilization, lighting, and furniture placement. Half-finished houses were my playgrounds, but professionalism was the rule, not suggestion. By the time I pulled up to the property, I felt ready—or at least as ready as anyone could be before a meeting that had the potential to derail your entire morning.

The gate creaked as I stepped inside. The house rose in front of me, skeletal and hollow, like it was waiting to be wrapped in life and color. Contractors moved through the rooms, clipboards clutched tightly, voices low with technical chatter. The smell of cement and sawdust filled the air, grounding me in the reality of the project before me.

And then I froze.

Malakai.

Of course it had to be him. Standing in the middle of the living room with sleeves rolled up, surveying the space like he owned it. Calm. Confident. Completely infuriating. My chest thudded harder than it should have, my carefully rehearsed morning mantra evaporating instantly.

I blinked. Slowly. One. Two. Three. Still him.

“Oh no,” I muttered under my breath. “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.”

He looked up as if he heard me, but said nothing at first. His eyebrows lifted just enough to make my chest clench. That look—the one that could see straight through me even when I didn’t want to be seen—made me feel exposed in the middle of a house that wasn’t even finished.

“Nova,” he said, calm and unbothered, voice carrying through the echo of the empty room.

I swallowed and tried to regain composure. “You… you’re the client?” My tone was meant to be professional, neutral, but I could hear the uncertainty underneath.

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching with what might have been a smirk. “I could ask you the same thing.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t expect to see you here either,” he said, walking a few steps toward the kitchen area. “So what are you doing here?”

I crossed my arms, trying to remember how to act like the untouchable Nova I had built this morning. “I could ask you the same thing,” I replied. “This… isn’t your property?”

He stopped, a faint laugh escaping him, and shook his head. “Apparently it is.”

“And you’re here for… design?” I asked cautiously, still unsure if this was some weird coincidence or fate actively trying to mess with me.

“Maybe,” he said, voice teasing now. “Depends on who you are and what you’re doing here.”

I frowned. “I’m here to work on a project. Half-finished house. Full vision. Sounds familiar?”

He chuckled, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Oh, that sounds exactly like something I’d hire someone for.”

My chest tightened again. Professional Nova was failing. Personal Nova was surging. I reminded myself firmly: This is a job. This is a job. This is a job.

“Then… I guess we’re on the same page?” I said, trying to push my voice back into a neutral tone.

“Looks like it,” he replied. Then he tilted his head toward the room. “So… where do we start?”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Living room. The natural light here is incredible, but the space feels… unfinished. Needs flow. Furniture placement could help define areas.”

“Furniture placement,” he repeated, sounding almost amused. “You think furniture can fix this?”

“It can define it,” I corrected, not missing a beat. “It can bring warmth, movement, personality. Empty rooms are dangerous. They either feel like possibilities… or nothing at all.”

He nodded slowly. “So… dangerous. Got it.”

I glanced at him, the sunlight catching on the edge of his jaw, and felt my pulse spike again. Why did everything feel sharper when he was here? Sharper, warmer, charged.

“You don’t like empty spaces,” I said, more observation than question, as we began walking through the skeletal house.

“No,” he replied quietly. “Not if they stay empty.”

My stomach did an annoying little flip. This wasn’t about a house anymore. Every word, every glance carried a weight I hadn’t expected. I walked over to the window opening in the future study. “Large window here?” I asked, tapping the floor plan on my tablet.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

“For what?” I pressed.

“Perspective,” he said simply.

I nodded slowly. The word hit harder than it should have. Perspective.

“Do you plan to live alone?” I asked, trying to maintain the professional tone I had spent the morning constructing.

“That depends,” he said quietly, his eyes flicking away for just a second “Leigh… she’s part of it”

My chest tightened. Of course. I felt the sudden sting, a sharp internal pinch, like being reminded of something I wasn’t supposed to feel

I swallowed. He could be calm and teasing and completely infuriating all at once. The house suddenly didn’t feel like just a project anymore. It felt like a test, a challenge, a trap.

I stepped back, reminding myself of professionalism. “I’ll send revised layout options by tomorrow,” I said, letting the words create a wall between us again.

sHe watched me walk through the unfinished space like I already belonged there. And that was the problem. Because this project wasn’t just a house. It was a canvas for him. And for the first time, I realized it was a canvas for us.