Chapter 27: Mapping Their Future
The papers were spread across Ace’s bed like a map to a foreign country. Sunlight, thick with afternoon dust, cut across the faded quilt, illuminating columns of rent prices and square footage. The air in his room was its own ecosystem—old wood, motor oil from the garage on his clothes, the faint, sweet smell of Lexi’s shampoo.
He was on his knees beside the bed, one rough hand planted flat next to a listing for a studio apartment. “This one,” he said, his finger tapping a number. “It’s five hundred less than the others. That’s… that’s tools. Or part of your books. Or a buffer for when my hours get cut.”
Lexi sat cross-legged on the quilt, the emerald on her finger catching the light every time she moved. She wasn’t looking at the studio. Her eyes were fixed on a printout of a two-bedroom floorplan. The second room was labeled ‘den’. In her mind, it wasn’t a den. It was a studio. A place for an easel, a drafting table, shelves for her supplies. A space where charcoal dust could settle on the floor and she could leave a work in progress without having to clear it for dinner.
“Five hundred less,” she echoed quietly. Her eyes scanned the studio description. Efficient kitchenette. Alcove sleeping area. Cozy.
Cozy was a word for candles, not for a life.
“Ace,” she said, her voice soft. She reached out and touched the edge of the two-bedroom listing. “Look at this one. The second room… I could make art there. Real art. Not just sketches at the kitchen table.”
He shifted, sitting back on his heels. His blue eyes scanned the page, his brows drawn together. He was doing math in his head; she could see it in the tight line of his jaw. “It’s at the top of the budget. The very top.” He let out a slow breath. “If anything went wrong… a single flat tire could screw us.”
“my father offered to help,” she reminded him.
“I don’t want his help.” The words came out sharp, automatic. He winced, softening his tone. “I mean… I want to do this. For us. By us.”
“I know.” She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The ring felt cool against her skin. “But accepting help isn’t failure. It’s just… a bridge.”
He looked up at her then, a faint ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Plank by plank.”
“Plank by plank,” she agreed. She unfolded herself, moving to kneel in front of him on the worn quilt. She took his hands, calloused and strong, in hers. “This isn’t just you building a life for me, Ace. It’s us building a life together. My art… it’s not a hobby. It’s what I’m going to school for. It’s going to be my work, someday. I need space for that, the same way you need space for your tools.”
He was silent, his gaze dropping to their joined hands. He turned her left hand over, running his thumb over the emerald. His touch was reverent. “You deserve a palace,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Not some box in a complex where the laundry room probably smells like mold.”
“I don’t want a palace,” she whispered fiercely, leaning forward until her forehead rested against his. “I want a home. With you. With room for both of us to grow. If that means the budget is tight, we’ll be tight. Together.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into her. The tension in his shoulders began to seep away, replaced by a weary acceptance. He knew she was right. He’d seen her hunched over her sketchbook at his cramped kitchen table, using a dinner plate to blend shadows. He’d seen the light in her eyes when she talked about the studios at Clementine.
“Okay,” he breathed, the word a surrender and a promise all at once. He pulled back, picking up the two-bedroom listing. “Okay. We’ll call about this one. See if it’s even still available.” He reached for the trade school pamphlets, fanning them out. “This welding program… it’s six months. Intensive. I’d be certified by spring and then I could get a job. A real one.”
Lexi studied the pamphlet he held, the glossy photo of a figure in a helmet, sparks flying like angry orange stars. "A welder?" she asked, her voice quiet. "I just... I always pictured you working on cars. The automotive program is right there, too. It's two years, maybe three."
She watched his throat work as he swallowed. "I know it is." He set the welding pamphlet down carefully, as if it were made of glass. "But that's two, three more years before I'd be certified. Before I could bring home a real check." His eyes met hers, blue and starkly honest. "That's two, three years of being... dependent. On your dad's help. On your loans. I can't do that, Lexi. I won't."
The room felt very still. The distant sound of a garbage truck down the alley was the only noise. Lexi looked at his hands, those capable hands that could rebuild an engine or trace her spine with such care. She thought of his grandmother's house around them, this sanctuary he'd fought so hard to keep.
"It's yours," she said finally, the idea forming as she spoke. "What about renting out your house while we're gone?" She reached over, touching his knee. "I know you'd never sell it. But renting it... that could be income. For us. A buffer."
Ace stared at her, his expression blank with shock. He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time—the model airplane, the shelves of paperbacks, the faint water stain on the ceiling from the winter thaw. "Strangers," he said, the word a low curse. "In her house. In my... our bed."
"It wouldn't be forever," she whispered, moving closer. She framed his face with her hands, forcing his gaze back to hers. "It's a plan. A way to get us both what we need, without you having to...compromise." Her thumb stroked his cheekbone. "You don't dream of welding torches. You dream of camshafts and carburetors. I've seen your face when you talk about engines."
A sound escaped him, part laugh, part groan. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. "I want to give you things. Now. Not in three years."
"You are," she insisted, her lips brushing his. "You're giving me a future where I don't have to choose between my art and my heart. Let me give you the same."
He opened his eyes. The conflict was still there, a storm in his gaze, but it was softening at the edges. He kissed her then, slowly, a deep, searching kiss that tasted like desperation and resolve. When he pulled back, his breath was warm on her face. "Okay," he murmured. "We'll call about the apartment. And... we'll look into what renting this place would entail. Just... look."
It was enough. It was a plank. She nodded, her forehead resting against his. The relief that flooded her was warm and dizzying.
His hands came up to cradle her head, his fingers threading into her hair. "Thank you," he breathed, the words choked. "For seeing a way through. For not letting me just... take the shortest path off a cliff."
She kissed him again, pouring her answer into it. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight against his chest until she could feel the frantic beat of his heart syncing with her own. They stayed like that for a long time, kneeling on the quilt amidst the scattered papers of their future, holding onto each other as if the world outside was just paper, too.
Finally, Ace stirred. He slid his hands down her back, over the curve of her hips, his touch shifting from gratitude to something hotter, more possessive. "I need you," he growled into her neck, his voice rough. "Right now. I need to feel you, Lexi. All of you."
A shiver of pure anticipation raced through her. She nodded against his shoulder, her own hands pulling at the hem of his t-shirt. "Yes."
He stood, lifting her with him in one fluid motion. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her the few steps to the wall beside the window. He pressed her against it, the old plaster cool through her thin shirt. The afternoon light outlined his profile in gold.
He kissed her like he was trying to memorize her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, his hands gripping her thighs. She could feel the hard length of him already pressing against her, even through their jeans. The sheer size of him, that confident, dominant possession in his touch, still sent a thrill of nervous heat through her stomach. She was new to this, but she trusted him completely.
"Tell me you're mine," he rasped, breaking the kiss to stare into her eyes. His own were nearly black with want.
"I'm yours," she whispered, meaning it in every possible way. "Always."
He made a sound of pure satisfaction and captured her mouth again, his hands working open the button of her jeans. The denim was rough against her skin as he pushed them down her hips, followed by her underwear. The cool air of the room brushed her bare skin, making her gasp.
He lowered her slowly, letting her feet touch the floor but supporting most of her weight. "Hold onto me," he instructed, his voice thick. He unfastened his own jeans, freeing himself. Her eyes widened slightly, a familiar flash of awe and slight anxiety mixing with her desire. He was so much, and she was still learning how to take all of him.
He saw the look and softened, brushing her hair back from her face. "Easy," he murmured, kissing her cheek, her jaw. "I've got you. Just hold on."
He guided himself to her, the broad head of him nudging against her wetness. He pressed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion that stole her breath. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into the worn cotton of his shirt, and buried her face in his neck as he filled her utterly, a sharp, stretching fullness that quickly melted into a deep, addictive ache.
"Christ, Lexi," he groaned, his forehead dropping to the wall beside her head. He stayed still, letting her adjust, his body trembling with the effort. "You feel like heaven. You feel like home."
Then he began to move. Not with frantic haste, but with a deliberate, rolling rhythm that shook the old wall. Each thrust was a promise, each retreat a plea. She matched him, her hips finding his tempo, her quiet moans muffled against his skin. This wasn't just sex. It was a reaffirmation. It was them, choosing each other, building something together, here in this room that might soon hold strangers, but for now held only them.
Her climax built slowly, a tight coil deep in her belly that unraveled in a wave of stunning brightness. She cried out, her body clamping around him, pulling him deeper. He followed with a hoarse shout, his own release shuddering through him, his body pinning her to the wall as he spilled into her.
They slumped there, breathing raggedly against each other, still joined. The papers on the bed rustled in a draft from the window. Ace nuzzled her hair, his lips against her temple. "We'll call," he whispered, his voice wrecked and sure. "Right now."
He carefully withdrew, helping her straighten her clothes with a tenderness that contrasted with the fever of moments before. He tucked himself away, then pulled her back into his arms, just holding her. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart again.
Lexi reached down to the floor, picking up the two-bedroom listing. The paper was warm from the sun. She smoothed the crumpled corner and handed it to him. Her hands were steady.
He took it, pulled his phone from his pocket, and dialed the number. He put it on speaker, his arm tight around her waist, anchoring her to him as the call rang, once, twice.
A third ring pierced the quiet of the room, the sound unnaturally loud. Lexi held her breath. She could feel the rigid tension in Ace’s forearm where it banded across her stomach.
A click, then a voice, harried and thin, came through the speaker. “Yeah, hello?”
“Hi,” Ace said, his voice unnaturally calm, a forced steadiness that didn’t match the pulse Lexi felt hammering under his skin. “I’m calling about the apartment listing. The two-bedroom on Elmhurst.”
“Elmhurst. Right.” There was a shuffling of papers, the sound of a hand muffling the receiver as the distant voice yelled, “Marty, I told you to label the boxes!” The voice came back, clearer. “You got the price from the ad?”
“We do.” Ace’s gaze locked with Lexi’s. “Is it still available?”
A long, shuffling pause. Lexi’s nails pressed half-moons into her own palm. This was it. The first real door.
“Available? Technically.” The landlord sighed, a wet, tired sound. “Last couple flaked after the credit check. You kids students?”
“Will be,” Ace confirmed, his jaw tight. “Starting in the fall. Clementine and North Tech.”
“Artists and trades.” The man chuckled, but it wasn’t unkind. “You sound better than the last ones. Look, it’s a walk-up. Second floor. Original floors, original windows—they draft. Heat’s included, water’s not. I need first, last, and a security deposit to hold it. You can come see it Saturday.”
The numbers were a physical weight. Lexi felt them settle in the room. First, last, security. Thousands of dollars they didn’t have.
Ace didn’t hesitate. “We’ll be there Saturday. Ten work?”
“Ten’s fine. Bring your checkbook if you like it.” The call ended with another click, abrupt and final.
The silence that followed was dense, charged with the new shape of their reality. The phantom numbers seemed to float in the dust motes.
“First, last, and security,” Lexi whispered, the words like stones.
“I’ve got the security,” Ace said, his voice low. He released her, walking to his dresser. He pulled open the top drawer, rummaged past folded t-shirts, and pulled out a battered metal lockbox. The key was on his keyring. He opened it.
Inside wasn’t much. A stack of twenties and fifties, maybe a thousand dollars total, saved from countless garage hours. Beneath it, tucked in an envelope, was a smaller stack of older bills and a faded bankbook. “This was from my grandma,” he said, not looking at her. “For emergencies. It’s eighteen hundred. That’s the security deposit.”
He placed the box on the bed beside the apartment listing. “First and last is another story. That’s… more.” He ran both hands through his hair, pulling at the roots. “I can pick up more hours. I can sell the old Kawasaki engine in the garage.”
“The rent out here,” Lexi said, the idea solidifying into necessity. She pointed at the floor, meaning his house, his grandmother’s house. “You’d need a property manager. Or… we could ask Dede. She used to manage those boutique rentals downtown on the side while she worked as a yoga and pilates instructor before she got pregnant and moved in with Dad and me.”
Ace looked at the walls, at the water stain, at the model airplane. Letting strangers in was one thing. Letting Dede, who was practically family, handle the logistics of his private sanctuary was another level of exposure. It made it real. It made him a landlord, not just a guy leaving a house behind.
“Okay,” he said, the word pushed out on an exhale. “Ask her. If she’s willing… we get the numbers. What this place could rent for. Then we know.”
He picked up his phone again, his movements decisive now. He googled the automotive program at North Tech, the one he’d secretly wanted. He turned the screen toward her. It was a two-year associate degree. The coursework listed Engine Performance, Electrical Systems, Advanced Diagnostics.
“If the rent from here covers even half of that apartment,” he said, his finger tracing the course list, “I could do this. This program. Not the welding shortcut.” He looked at her, his blue eyes clear for the first time all afternoon. “I could build the life I actually want with you. Not just the fastest one.”
Lexi took the phone from his hand. She read the course names, imagining him coming home with grease under his nails, talking about fuel injectors and torque. This was his version of her studio den. This was his art.
She put the phone down and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their foreheads touched. “Then that’s the plan,” she whispered. “We’ll get the numbers. We’ll see the apartment. We’ll build it.”
He kissed her, slow and deep, a seal on the pact. When they parted, he kept her close, his voice a low vibration against her lips. “We should go tell your dad and Dede. About the call. About… all of it.”
Lexi nodded, a flutter of nervous excitement replacing the earlier dread. This was moving. It was terrifying. It was theirs. She slid her hand into his, the emerald a cool, steady point of contact. “Plank by plank,” she said.
He squeezed her hand. “Let’s go lay the next one.”