He just grinned, handed Viggo a cup of tea, and said, “So. Next project. I’m thinking a birdhouse.”
Viggo looked up slowly. “A bookshelf.” viggo and ryker
“That’s the height of the room, Ryker. We need the width.” He just grinned, handed Viggo a cup of tea, and said, “So
Viggo had spent the morning polishing his collection of vintage compasses. “Precision instruments,” he called them. Ryker called them “dust magnets.” But they shared a peaceful rhythm—Viggo at the kitchen table, Ryker on the couch with his dog, Biscuit, snoring at his feet. “A bookshelf
“That’s never stopped me before.” They didn’t finish the bookshelf that day. Or the next. But on the third day, something shifted. Viggo stopped measuring twice and started measuring once. Ryker stopped guessing and started asking. They worked side by side—Viggo cutting, Ryker holding, Biscuit stealing screws and hiding them in her bed.