"This is really bad," Evan says for the thousandth time, making a disgusted face at the carpet and the crumbling, stained padding beneath it. "Jesus. It smells like cat piss over here."

I make a face, noticing the smell as well. "Now do you see why I insisted on paying you?"

I finish rolling up a section of the old carpet. Evan assigned me the task of rolling up the sections he tears out for easier disposal, though he insists on being gentlemanly and carrying the resulting rolls down to the van.

With an expression reminiscent of a toddler staring down a bowl of broccoli, Evan grabs hold of the last piece of padding and tears it from the wall. "Yucky."

I laugh. Evan looks at me, uncomprehending. "Yucky," I repeat, chuckling.

Evan grins and clicks the blade of his boxcutter down before tossing it harmlessly at my leg. I roll my eyes as I look around the room. Beneath the carpet was a solid old hardwood, dusty and yes, red-colored. I floated the idea past Evan of just refinishing that, but he said it would take just as long as putting in the new flooring and would still look orangey. Upon learning this, I thought better of straying from the original plan.

I expected the process to take a lot longer than this. We've only been working about an hour and all the carpet is out. I'm grateful my taste in furniture is very minimalistic because we just moved stuff around the room instead of having to remove it.

"Eh-hem," I hear a voice say. I turn to see Ms. Harper standing in the doorway, raising an eyebrow not at the mess we've made of my apartment, but at Evan, who rolls up the last bit of padding. "What do we have here?"

I smile and stand up. "Hi, Ms. Harper. This is my friend, Evan. Evan, this is my neighbor, Ms. Harper. She threatened to fight my dad when she saw him in here after my concussion."

"I didn't know he was your dad, I thought he was some weirdo," Ms. Harper lectures me.

Her eyes land on Evan when he stands up and approaches her, hand outstretched. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Harper. I promise I'm not usually covered in carpet fuzz."

Ms. Harper laughs and takes his hand. With this, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I trust her instincts, so I'm not sure what I would have done if she didn't approve of Evan. "Good to meet you, Evan. I do have to ask, though, Audrey, did you get approval for all this?" she asks, gesturing around at the naked red wood.

"I did," I say, giving her a thumbs-up. "Wait till you see when it's finished."

She smiles. "I'll get some lemonade for you guys. You're not gonna catch my ass helping, but I'll do the lemonade."

Evan and I laugh as she waves us goodbye. Together, we lug the last of the carpet and padding down the stairs. I look around to make sure we're alone as he pulls a few boxes of vinyl planks off of the pallet in the back. It fills my soul with joy to see the discarded carpet in the van beside the pallet. "She likes you," I say, nudging him.

"Did you worry she wouldn't?" he asks, casting a glance back at me as he hands me a roll of foam underlayment.

"Evan, she tried to fight my dad," I remind him. "And I can carry the vinyl. You don't need to give me the light stuff because I'm a girl."

He looks back at me, annoyed. "I was giving you the light stuff because I'm nice and have seventy pounds on you, but sure, whatever you say," he grumbles comedically.

"Eh, who cares? Carry the vinyl. Testosterone increases muscle mass," I say indifferently. He sighs as he lifts a few boxes on his shoulder and hands me another roll of underlayment with his spare hand.

"I mean this in the best way, Audrey, but you're fucking exhausting," he tells me with a teasingly tired smile.

I rise on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek.

True to her word, Ms. Harper left a pitcher of lemonade on my counter. I sip a cup of it as I watch Evan, completely enraptured by his seemingly effortless movements. He cuts out the underlayment and begins interlocking the vinyl planks. This is the first use of the miter saw sitting in the corner. He gently taps the planks into place. "I've started these three lines," he says, pointing to them. "You lay planks toward the door, and I'll lay them toward the other wall."

I nod and heed him. There seems to be a pattern with which he is sawing the planks to fit them together. Then I realize that if he didn't cut them, the line where the planks end would be a clearly visible ridge in the floor.

He really does know what he's doing.

At first, I struggle to put the planks together. The interlocking strips are hard to coax into place, but indescribably satisfying when they click together seamlessly. I'm so lost in my task that I don't realize we are more than halfway done until I see Evan start to move my furniture to the completed section.

I drop what I'm doing to help him move the bed and the sofa. The rest of my furniture, just a mirror, a pair of shelves, and the table I set my TV on, is light enough for one person to carry, so I point to the lemonade. "Lemonade break. You haven't lived until you've had Ms. Harper's lemonade."

Evan flashes me a cheeky grin. "Yes, ma'am."

I roll my eyes as I move the rest of the furniture out of the way and restart the flooring.

When Evan carefully measures, cuts and places the final piece of flooring in the corner by the kitchen, I let myself take a deep breath of relief. The carpet is gone. My flooring is beautiful. It looks fantastic.

But there's this feeling of disappointment. I don't want this project to end. Working with him, being close to him, laughing and chatting with him as we keep our hands busy, has been fantastic. I don't want this to be over.

I put it off as long as possible, moving my furniture back slowly as Evan takes the tools and the saw back to the van. When he rejoins me, he foils my efforts to take my time replacing the furniture. It's done within minutes.

"It looks fantastic, Evan. Thank you so much," I catch myself breathing. And it's true. My studio looks larger, cleaner, and much more modern. Even if I'm pouting inwardly, I can't stop myself from admiring my brand-new floor.

"You're welcome. Are... are you okay?" Evan asks.

"Yes," I lie, nodding. "Um... we can stop by an ATM on the way back from dropping off the van, if that's okay."

Evan just looks at me. "Audrey. What's wrong? Do you not like it?"

"No! I love it. It's perfect," I say, reaching for his hand. "I guess I'm just... disappointed that we finished so quickly. I was having fun."

He smiles and leans down for a long kiss, which I return to him without hesitation.

"Oh, my, don't mind me, just getting my pitcher back," Ms. Harper declares happily. I look over at her, happy as ever to see her but annoyed that she robbed me of my kiss. "The floor looks great, you two! I'm hiring you next, Evan. I'll just be on my way..."

Evan laughs and I give her a tired look. She winks at us as she leaves, pitcher in hand.

I think for a moment. "Would you be okay coming back here? After we're done with the van? Watch a movie or something?"

I haven't had a proper boyfriend in my adult life. The closest I've ever had was Peter Sims, a boy whose hand I held in my sophomore year of highschool. Our relationship was as unremarkable as he was, and it dissolved as easily as it generated. I don't know how adult people do this romance thing, and this uncertainty makes me feel stupid and unlearned.

"I'd love that, but you know you don't need to. I'm fine going back to the Mission," he replies softly.

I make a face. He laughs and kisses my forehead with those incredibly soft lips. "I'd love to come back here. Though I'll be at the Mission by curfew," he assures me.

I look up at him, completely touched and grateful that he's so effortlessly lifting the weight off of my shoulders, leaving me with only the burgeoning feeling of affection burning in the center of my chest.

I kiss him. It's the only way I can think to express my gratitude because words simply won't cut it. Despite my limited practice, I think I'm getting better at kissing. The slight twists and movements of my tongue make his pulse race. I feel it when I rest a hand on the side of his neck. The firmness of his hands on my waist makes my pulse rise, too.

"Thank you," I whisper against his lips. "For everything."

In answer, he presses his lips to mine again.

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