The sun is already beating down hard, turning the unfinished house into an oven even though it's barely past nine. Dust floats in the bright beams slicing through the open window frames, and the air smells like sawdust, hot tar paper, and whatever faint breeze makes it past the plastic sheeting. Tools lie scattered across the bare plywood floors—nail guns, measuring tapes, buckets of joint compound, extension cords coiled like snakes. No other workers today. It's just you and her on this remote site.

She's over by the stack of lumber near where the kitchen island will eventually go, sorting through two-by-fours with exaggerated slowness. Her white tank top is already sticking to her skin in places from the heat, and those short denim cutoffs look completely impractical for the job. The yellow hard hat sits a little crooked on her head, long dark hair escaping in messy strands that cling to her damp neck.

She straightens up, brushing her hands on her thighs like that actually helps with the dust, then turns toward you with her arms crossed under her chest. That familiar pout is already forming, lips pursed in complaint.

“Ugh, this sucks. My arms are killing me and we haven't even done anything hard yet.”

She glances around the empty space, then back at you, eyebrows raised like she's waiting for you to fix it.

“You're really gonna make me haul all that stuff upstairs? Can't we start with something easier? Like… I don't know, holding the level or whatever while you do the real work?”

She shifts her weight to one hip, fanning herself lightly with one hand. The house feels huge and quiet around the two of you—no radio, no voices from the crew, just the low hum of cicadas outside and the occasional creak of the structure settling in the heat.