Decker had always believed that the final ten percent of a job was what separated amateurs from professionals.

Anyone could tear down a wall. Anyone could swing a hammer. But the last details—the trim that lined up perfectly, the cabinet that closed with a whisper, the paint edge so clean it looked printed on—those were what made a place feel finished.

Which was exactly why he was standing in the hallway at ten o’clock on a Thursday night, blocking a doorway with his entire six-foot-three body like a human barricade.

“You’re being weird,” Poppy said from the other side of him.

Decker couldn’t help the way his gaze softened. She was in soft, worn-in pajamas, the kind that hung perfectly on her without trying. Her hair had escaped its usual neat braid, falling in loose strands around her face. No makeup, just the glow of her skin and the way her eyes caught the dim hallway light, bright and mischievous.

God, he loved her. With his whole being, every stubborn, chaotic, stupidly loyal part of him. Seeing her like this—completely unguarded, completely herself—made his chest ache in the best way.

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re standing in front of a door like you’re guarding the nuclear codes,” she shot back, tilting her head and giving him that sly smirk that had made his heart stutter the first time he saw it.

“It’s called anticipation,” he said, hoping she didn’t notice the heat rising in his chest just from looking at her.

“Anticipation,” she repeated, her voice teasing. “Or nervousness?”

“Definitely anticipation,” he said quickly, stepping a fraction closer, careful not to let her see how badly he wanted to just sweep her into his arms right there in the hallway.

She leaned slightly to the side, trying to peek past him, and he shifted instinctively to block her view. Her pajama-clad form moved gracefully despite the cramped space, and he felt that familiar punch-in-the-gut awareness: she was his person. Always had been, always would be.

“Decker,” she said, her voice soft now, carrying that edge of patience that only she could pull off. “I’m giving you exactly five seconds before I body-check you out of the way.”

He swallowed hard, trying not to let the sheer, ridiculous, perfect sight of her make him lose all his composure.

When he didn’t answer, she narrowed her eyes. “Decker.”

“Poppy.”

“You realize that the more you do this, the more I’m going to assume you’ve either broken something or adopted an animal without telling me.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Both solid possibilities.”

“Decker.”

“Poppy,” he said certain that his grin was big and stupid.

She sighed, long and dramatic, and crossed her arms. “I’m giving you exactly five seconds before I body-check you out of the way.”

He glanced at the door behind him. Fresh paint. New trim. The handle he’d installed about an hour ago. Every inch of it exactly the way he’d imagined.

His stomach did a weird little flip. Which was ridiculous. He built entire houses without blinking. But this?

This mattered.

“Okay,” he said finally.

Poppy blinked. “Okay what?”

“Okay, you can look.”

Her suspicion deepened. “Why do you sound like someone about to show me a surprise party that might also explode?”

Just open the door, angel.”

He stepped aside.

She studied his face for a second—like she was trying to read the fine print—then reached for the handle.

The door swung open and for a moment, Poppy didn’t move.

Then she stepped inside slowly, her hands slowly going to rest above her heart.

It was the last room they had yet to furnish. It was completed at the same time as the rest of the house, but they hadn’t gotten around to figuring out what to do with it. Decker had figured it out and now he was nervous a hell to see how Poppy was going to react.

            Sunlight-colored pendant lights hung over a long, sturdy worktable in the center of the room. The table itself was scarred in the way only real work surfaces were—solid wood, sanded smooth but not precious.

Along one wall, floating shelves held rows of neatly organized jars: hardware, brushes, sanding blocks, tiny bottles of stain and paint. Another wall was covered in pegboard, every tool hanging in its place. A vintage dresser sat in the corner, halfway stripped, the wood grain beneath the old paint glowing like it had been waiting years to be seen again.

And near the window—where the afternoon light poured in—sat a comfortable stool and a wide workbench.

Poppy turned slowly in the center of the room. Her voice came out softer than usual.

“What is this?”

Decker leaned against the doorframe, suddenly finding the grain of the hardwood floor extremely fascinating.

“It’s a studio.”

Silence.

He risked a glance up. Poppy was still staring around the room, eyes wide.

“You built me a studio?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Technically, I renovated a vacant room and turned it into a workspace optimized for furniture restoration and small-scale upcycling projects.”

She looked at him. “That’s a studio, Decker.”

“Right. I have my workshop in the garage. Scout has her nursery. You need a space of your own.”

“So you built me a she-shed?” She walked toward the worktable slowly, running her fingers across the surface. “This is butcher block.”

“Sealed it twice.”

Her hand moved to the pegboard. “You labeled everything.”

“Felt efficient.”

Poppy turned in a slow circle again. Her gaze snapped to the dresser in the corner. It was the exact kind of piece she loved—solid wood buried under decades of ugly paint. “And that’s—”

“Your first project. I found it at the flea market last weekend,” Decker said. “Figured it deserved a second life.”

He could see her throat working hard against the emotion that was bubbling up in her eyes.

“You remembered.”

“Angel,” he said, a little rougher now. “It’s the thing you love.”

She looked at him. Not the teasing, sparring look she usually gave him. Something softer.

“When I started doing this,” she said quietly, “I had one paintbrush and a folding table in Opal’s garage.”

“I know.”

“I sold my first piece online for forty dollars.”

He nodded, then pointed to the wall on the far side of the room. Her gaze followed and he knew when she spotted it because her breath caught.

“You framed the receipt.” She blinked. “How do you know that?”

“Because it’s still in the drawer of your nightstand.”

Poppy’s mouth fell open. “You snooped through my stuff?”

“I live here,” he said defensively. “It’s not snooping if it’s within arm’s reach.”

She stared at him. Then she laughed—a soft, incredulous sound.

He pushed off the wall, stepping into the room. “I know the house is done,” he said. “But this felt important.”

Her fingers brushed the edge of the dresser.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

Poppy looked around the studio again. The tools. The light. The table. All of it ready for her.

“You built this for me,” she said.

“I built it for us,” Decker corrected.

Her brow lifted.

“You love bringing broken things back to life,” he said. “Furniture. Houses. Sometimes people.” Her eyes softened. “And you’re really good at it.”

For a second neither of them spoke. Then Poppy walked over and slid her arms around his waist.

“You’re very smug right now, aren’t you?” she murmured against his chest.

“Unbelievably.”

She tipped her head back to look at him. “I love it.”

That flip in his stomach came back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Her gaze drifted to the dresser again. “You know what the best part is?”

“What?”

She grinned. “It’s ugly as hell.”

Decker snorted.

“Give me two days,” she said, already moving toward the workbench. “This thing is going to be gorgeous.”

He leaned against the wall, watching her pick up a sanding block like she’d been waiting her whole life to hold it. The way she studied the dresser. The way her eyes lit up. The way she looked completely, unmistakably happy.

Yeah. Definitely worth the last ten percent.

Poppy glanced over her shoulder. “You realize, this means you’re officially my assistant now.”

Decker folded his arms. “Assistant?”

“Tool runner. Paint opener. Occasional heavy lifter.”

He considered that.

“Do assistants get paid?”

She walked back over, sliding her hands into his shirt. “In kisses.”

He pretended to think about it. “Seems low.”

Poppy smiled.

Then she kissed him anyway.

And somewhere behind them, the unfinished dresser waited patiently for its second life.