Hi, this is a new project of mine, with a difference writing style from my old work, I hope you will like it. All characters in this story are adults, over 18 years old.
Sam's POV
The thing about our house is that it always smells like something good. Like, genuinely, ridiculously good. This morning, it was bacon and coffee, a combo so perfect it should be illegal. The smell weaves its way through the floorboards, up the stairs, and basically yanks you out of bed by your nostrils. It’s my mom’s superpower. She doesn’t just cook; she makes the whole house feel right. Dad says her coffee could convince a bear to start doing taxes, and he’s not wrong. I stumbled downstairs, my brain still half-asleep, and the scene in the kitchen was straight out of some wholesome TV commercial.
Mom was at the stove, humming a tune I didn’t recognize, her back to me. The morning sun slanted through the window over the sink, catching the little wisps of hair that had escaped her ponytail and turning them into a golden halo. She’s turning 39 this year, same as Dad, but sometimes, in light like this, she looks exactly like the pictures in their wedding album. She turned when she heard my feet creak on the last step, and her face broke into that smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like you just won something, even if all you did was manage to wake up.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” she said, her voice as warm as the steam rising from her coffee mug. “Bacon’s almost ready. Your friends are on their way.”
Dad was at the table, already halfway through a plate that would feed a small army. He’s the other half of the perfect picture. If Mom is the heart of our family, Dad is the frame—solid, dependable, and built to last. He’s a contractor, but not the kind that just bosses people around from a clean truck. His hands look like they’ve been in a lifelong argument with wood and steel, and have won every time. The knuckles are scarred, the palms are thick with calluses, and there’s usually a faint line of grease or dirt under his nails that never quite washes out. He’s broad in the shoulders and thick through the chest, the kind of guy who looks like he could lift the front end of his pickup if he got a flat. He just grunted a “mornin’” at me, his mouth full of eggs, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. That’s Dad-speak for “I love you, now pass the ketchup.”
I had just sat down when the unmistakable rattle and roar of Jake’s ancient Ford Bronco echoed up the driveway. A few seconds later, the back door slammed open and in they came, Jake and Tyler, my two best friends. They’re my age, eighteen now, same as me. We all had our birthdays back in the spring, so this is officially our first summer as ‘adults,’ or whatever. And like always, they acted like they owned the place. Because, on weekends, they pretty much did.
“Mrs. H!” Jake boomed, flashing a grin that could charm a snake out of its skin. He swept in and gave my mom a one-armed hug, stealing a piece of bacon right off the tray she was holding. “You are an angel sent from breakfast heaven.”
Mom just laughed, swatting his hand away playfully. “You boys are going to eat us out of house and home one of these days. Tyler, honey, grab a plate.”
Tyler, who was always a bit quieter than Jake but had this intense, focused energy about him, just nodded, his eyes already locked on the food. “Smells amazing, as always.”
They’re like the brothers I never had. We’ve been inseparable since we were kids, a three-man wolf pack navigating the treacherous wilderness of our small lakeside town. They’re the reason my social life isn’t just me arguing with people online about video games. They make everything an adventure, even something as simple as Saturday morning breakfast. That’s when they sprung their plan on us. Or, more accurately, on my dad.
“So, Mr. H,” Jake started, leaning back in his chair with a calculated casualness. “We were driving by the lake path yesterday, and, man, that old treehouse is looking… uh… nostalgic.”
Tyler snorted into his orange juice. “Nostalgic is one word for it. ‘Condemned’ is another.”
Dad’s jaw tightened just a little. The treehouse was his project, built for me years ago. It was our fortress, our pirate ship, our spaceship. But time and the brutal lakefront winters had taken their toll. The wood was starting to rot, and the whole structure listed to one side like a drunk sailor. Dad had been muttering about tearing it down or fixing it up since March, but he never seemed to get around to it.
“It’s on the list,” Dad grumbled, not looking up from his plate. That was his standard response for any household project he was avoiding.
“Well,” Jake said, pressing on. “We figured, three strong young backs are better than one, right? We’ve got nothing to do today. Let’s go out there, patch it up. A little manual labor never hurt anyone. Plus, it’s a good excuse to drink some of your beer.”
This was where Mom jumped in, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, Robert, that’s a wonderful idea! You boys are such lifesavers. I was so worried one of those storms would just take the whole thing down.” She turned to Dad, her expression so bright and hopeful it was basically a weapon. “It’ll be fun! A project for you and the boys.”
You could see the conflict on Dad’s face. He’s a proud man; he doesn’t like asking for help, and he especially doesn’t like being told what to do with his own projects. But saying no to Mom when she was using that voice was like trying to stop a tidal wave with a pool noodle. It just wasn't going to happen. He let out a long, slow sigh, the sound of a man surrendering to fate. A tiny muscle twitched in his cheek. He looked from Jake to Tyler, a strange, unreadable expression on his face that I just figured was his usual grumpy-but-secretly-pleased look.
“Fine,” he muttered, pushing his chair back. “Finish your food. I’ll get the tools.”
An hour later, we were trekking down the path toward the lake. The air was already thick and humid, the kind that makes your shirt stick to your back before you’ve even started working. Dad was in the lead. He had on a thin, grey t-shirt that was already showing a dark patch of sweat between his shoulder blades. Below, he was wearing a pair of loose, thin short-shorts, the kind that stopped about halfway up his big tree-trunk thighs. They fit him in this weird way, where it was like the only thing holding them up was the sheer size of his ass. I mean, they were baggy everywhere else, but in the back, the fabric was stretched so tight across those two huge, round mountains of his, you could see every single muscle flex when he walked. And because the material was so thin, I dared to look—I mean, I couldn’t help but notice—that there weren't any underwear lines under there at all. He must have been going commando. I guess it makes sense, though. They looked super comfortable for working in the heat.
As we walked, I fell back a bit, content to just watch them. It was kinda cool, seeing my dad with my friends like this. He’s always been friendly, but over the past few months, ever since that time they helped him in the basement, Jake and Tyler had become his friends, too. They had their own rhythm, their own way of talking. I was just happy to be part of it.
Jake slung a heavy arm over my shoulder, pulling me in close. His shirt was already damp, and he smelled like cheap deodorant and the sausage he’d eaten for breakfast. He nodded toward Dad’s back, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. Dad was walking a few paces ahead, the toolbox swinging in his hand, and those thin shorts he was wearing… well, they clung to his thighs and rode up high in the back, outlining the curve of his ass with every step.
“Your old man’s got that front-and-back combo locked down, huh?” Jake murmured, his voice a low rumble next to my ear. “Like a damn milkshake machine up top and a full-service bakery down below. Non-stop service.”
I giggled, not really getting it. “He’s strong, I guess.”
Tyler, walking on my other side, let out a sharp snort of laughter, wiping a line of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Strong ain’t the half of it, man. That oven’s prime for rising dough. Gotta be kept hot and ready at all times.” He winked at Jake over my head. “Remember how we ‘assisted’ him with that plumbing issue a couple months back? Down in the basement?”
Oh yeah, I remembered that day. It was just a couple of months back, right after we’d all finally turned eighteen. It felt like their first real ‘adult’ project, helping Dad out like that. Mom and I were about to watch a movie when the water heater started making this awful groaning noise. Dad went down to check on it, and Jake and Tyler, who were already over, insisted on helping. About ten minutes later, Tyler called up, saying my dad needed a specific kind of 'sealant' from the hardware store to fill a hole and that it was a two-person job to hold a leaky valve, so Mom and I should go. It took us over an hour to find the right stuff. When we got back, the three of them were sweating buckets, and the basement smelled weird, kinda salty and sour, and the groaning from the tank hadn't stopped.
“Yeah, you guys fixed the hole on the tank, right?” I said, proud that I remembered the term.
Tyler’s grin widened into something sharp and feral. “Oh, we secured the ‘hole’ alright. Your pap was all ‘hell no, I can handle it myself’ at first, but once we figured out the right recipe to get things flowing…” He trailed off, pulling out his phone and starting to swipe through his photos. “Got a little clip of our technique, actually. For ‘training purposes.’”
Suddenly, Dad stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t turn all the way around, but his whole body went rigid. The muscles in his neck corded. “Put that away, Tyler,” he said, and his voice was low and gravelly, like stones grinding together. It was a tone he rarely used, the one that meant he wasn’t kidding. The skin on the back of his neck turned a deep, blotchy red.
Jake just laughed, a loud, booming sound that echoed through the quiet woods. He slapped Dad hard on the back, right between the shoulder blades. “Relax, big guy! Just admiring your handiwork. We’re all on the same team here.”
Dad flinched at the slap but started walking again, faster this time, like he was trying to outrun the conversation. Jake and Tyler fell into step behind him, their banter picking up a new, relentless pace. It was like they had their own private language, one I was only getting bits and pieces of.
“Seriously, though,” Jake said, loud enough for Dad to hear clearly. “Those glutes are bringing all the boys to the yard. Someone’s gotta be shoving a loaf in that oven today, right? Get a second rise going before lunch.”
“Hell yeah,” Tyler chimed in, his eyes gleaming with a strange intensity as he stared at Dad’s retreating form. “Multiple batches if we’re lucky. We brought enough batter for the whole neighborhood. Gotta keep layering it on, nice and thick. Fill it up until it overflows, that’s the only way to do a proper bake.”
I frowned, trying to piece it together. They were obsessed with baking analogies. It was weird, but they were always joking about food. Maybe they were just really hungry. “Are you guys talking about Mom’s sourdough? She is making some later.”
They both looked at me, and for a second, their smiles faltered. Then Jake burst out laughing again, even harder this time. “Yeah, buddy. Exactly. Your mom’s sourdough. We’re just… really excited about it.” He winked at me, a slow, deliberate gesture. “We love making sure everything is properly… kneaded.”
Throughout all this, Dad’s face was on fire. I could see the color creeping up past his collar, a tide of angry red. He kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead, his jaw working silently. He looked like he’d swallowed something bitter. I felt a little bad for him. He’s always been kind of modest, and they were really laying it on thick. It was sweet that they thought he was so cool, but maybe it was embarrassing for him.
When we finally reached the clearing, the treehouse looked even sadder up close. It sagged on its main support beam, a tired old man leaning on a cane. Rotted planks hung loose, and the whole thing was covered in a green film of moss.
“Alright,” Dad said, his voice strained as he dropped the toolbox with a heavy thud. “Let’s just get this over with.”
He ran a callused hand over a patch of moss-eaten wood and sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “The main beam is solid, but the floorboards are shot,” he announced, his voice all business now, as if trying to erase the weird conversation from the path. He pointed up at the platform. “See that rot? We put all our weight on one spot, the whole damn thing’s coming down on our heads. Two at a time, max. No exceptions. One guy to hold the new board in place, one guy to nail it down.”
It made perfect sense. I nodded sagely, feeling like part of the crew. Safety first.
“I’ll go up first, get the lay of the land,” Dad said, grabbing a pry bar from the toolbox. He looked between Jake and Tyler, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second too long. “Jake. You’re with me first. Get the big crowbar.”
My job was designated as ‘ground control.’ I was in charge of the important task of sorting screws into different piles and passing tools up the ladder when they yelled for them. It felt official. I was the quartermaster of this whole operation.
Dad climbed the creaking ladder, his movements sure and steady. As he hoisted himself onto the platform, those thin shorts pulled tight across his ass. Jake followed, but paused halfway up to look down at me with a grin. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll take good care of your old man.”
The sounds started almost immediately. First, the sharp screech of old nails being pulled from rotting wood. Then, a lot of grunting and heavy breathing that drifted down through the leaves. Then came a series of heavy, rhythmic thuds. It wasn’t the clean, sharp tack-tack-tack of a hammer hitting a nail. It was a deeper, fleshier sound, like someone was trying to tenderize a giant side of beef with a sledgehammer. They must be knocking the old, stubborn planks loose. Man, that wood must be really stuck.
“Jesus!” Jake’s voice echoed from above, strained but also weirdly gleeful. “Loosen up a little, will ya? You’re way too damn tight! I can’t get the board to fit in this position!”
A low, guttural sound came from Dad, but it was broken up, choked out between gasps for air. I’d almost never heard him talk like this before, the words tearing from his throat. “Shut your dam... Mouth. That shit... of yours is... God, motherfucker... ... Big and heavy... SHIT... Not even halfway!” Whoa. Dad almost never swore, and definitely not the F-word. He must be talking about the big crowbar Jake brought up; that thing was a monster. For Dad to say it was big and heavy, and that it wasn't even halfway under the rotten plank yet… man, that board must have been practically welded to the frame. He sounded like he was in real pain, like all his muscles were screaming from the strain.
“I’ve seen you do better, Mr. H,” Jake’s voice was a low growl now. “Steady that base, I’m gonna ram the whole thing in!”
Then there was a loud slap, followed by a sharp cry from Dad that was quickly muffled. I flinched, looking up. “Everything okay up there?” I shouted, my voice sounding small in the big, quiet woods.
Jake’s head popped over the edge, his face drenched in sweat and flushed a dark, mottled red. He was grinning, a wild, triumphant look in his eyes. “All good, chief! Just had a… stubborn board. We had to pry it open hard. Your dad slipped and hit his face.”
“Oh. Is he okay?”
“He’s tough,” Jake yelled back. The muffled groans started again, along with more of that thick, thumping sound. Hard work.
An hour later, Jake climbed back down the ladder. He looked completely spent, his shirt clinging to his chest and back like a second skin. He staggered over to the water cooler, chugging half a bottle in one go. “Tag me out,” he gasped at Tyler, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Gotta get some fresh manpower on the job. That rear frame needs a lot more reinforcement.”
Tyler’s eyes lit up. He practically vaulted up the ladder, eager for his turn. The noises started again, but they were different this time. The thuds were faster, more frantic, accompanied by a low, continuous groan from Dad that I figured was the strain of holding the heavy new roofing panels in place while Tyler worked.
“Gotta fill this crack before we go any further!” Tyler yelled down. “It’s a big one! Need something thick and white to seal it up real good!”
“You need the caulk gun?” I yelled back, proud that I knew the right tool for the job.
A bark of laughter came from above. “Yeah, kid! Send up the ‘caulk’ gun! I’ve got plenty of my own I’m using right now, but an extra load can’t hurt!”
I didn’t get the joke, but I found the big white tube and the metal gun, clipping it to the rope we were using to haul things up. They were so funny. They turned everything into some kind of joke. It was awesome, really. Like watching a pro team at work. They had this shorthand, this easy chemistry that made the work go faster. I felt a little useless just sorting screws, but mostly I was just proud. My dad, my friends, all working together.
Tyler came down about forty-five minutes later, looking just as wrecked as Jake had. He gave Jake a look, a silent communication that passed between them, and then he turned to me and clapped my shoulder. “Your pop is a hell of a worker. Can really take a load. We’re laying the foundation thick and deep.”
I just nodded, grinning. “I know! He’s the best.”
It was cool seeing them work so hard for us, for my dad. This treehouse was my childhood, and they were saving it. Dad didn’t even come down when they switched. He just stayed up there. I could hear his voice, faint and hoarse. He must be so exhausted, but he was too stubborn to quit. What a hero. And what amazing friends I had, pushing themselves to the limit to help him out. The sun was getting higher in the sky, beating down on the clearing, and the air was thick with the smell of cut wood, sweat, and something else… a sharp, musky scent that I just figured was the smell of hard work. The smell of men.
Jake and Tyler were sprawled on a patch of grass in the shade, looking completely wiped out. They lay there like discarded marionettes, all limp limbs and heavy breathing. When they saw me watching, Jake lifted his head with a huge, theatrical effort.
“Both of us are wrecked,” he panted, gesturing vaguely between himself and Tyler. “Your turn, champ. Go give your dad the final push he needs.”
“My turn?” My heart did a little leap. “Awesome!” I grabbed a hammer from the toolbox, feeling its weight in my hand. It felt right. I was finally getting off the bench.
“Wait,” a voice croaked from above. It was Dad. His head was just visible over the edge of the platform. His face was pale, slick with sweat, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. “No. It’s… it’s not safe up here yet. The main joists aren’t secured.”
I paused at the base of the ladder, confused. “But… you guys have been up there for hours.”
Tyler pushed himself up on one elbow, a lazy grin on his face. “Don’t be a hero, Mr. H. Let your boy help out. He’s gotta learn how to handle a hard tool sometime.”
“He’s right,” Jake added, sitting up. “He’s stronger than he looks. Besides, we did all the heavy lifting. All that’s left is the easy finishing work. He can handle a little hammering, can’t he?” They both looked at Dad, their expressions a weird mix of challenge and amusement.
Dad looked down, his eyes darting from them to me. He looked cornered. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Finally, he just let out a long, shaky breath and pulled his head back out of sight. It was the strangest thing. It was like all the fight had just drained out of him.
“See? He’s ready for you,” Jake said, giving me a shove toward the ladder. “Go on, slugger. Show him what you’ve got.”
Fueled by their encouragement, I started to climb. The wooden rungs were warm from the sun. With every step up, the air seemed to get thicker, heavier with that same musky, salty smell from before. When my head cleared the floor of the treehouse, the smell hit me full force. It was like the lake, but with an undercurrent of something acrid and… thick. Like a wet towel left in a gym bag for way too long.
And then I saw my dad. He was slumped against the far wall, his legs splayed out in front of him. He looked… wrecked. Not just tired, but completely hollowed out. His shirt was untucked and soaked through, clinging to his chest in dark, wet patches. There were smudges of dirt and sawdust all over him, and a nasty-looking red, chafed mark on the side of his neck that looked like a rope burn. He must have really scraped himself up on a rough plank. He was breathing in shallow little gasps, and when he looked at me, his eyes seemed unfocused, glassy.
I looked around the small space. For all the grunting and slamming and yelling I’d heard, it didn’t look like much had been done. A couple of new floorboards were laid near the entrance, but only a few nails were hammered in, and not even all the way. The rest of the floor was still the same old rotting mess. Wow. This job must be even harder and more complicated than I thought. No wonder they were all so exhausted.
“Dad? You okay?” I asked, stepping onto the platform. He flinched, as if my voice had startled him.
“Fine,” he rasped, not meeting my eyes. He pushed himself to his feet, moving slowly and stiffly, like an old man. “Just… tired. Grab that two-by-four. We’ll finish this section.”
The next twenty minutes were the quietest of the entire morning. The easy, shit-talking banter was gone, replaced by a tense, heavy silence. Dad worked like a robot. He’d point to a spot, and I’d place the board. He’d hold it steady with a hand that trembled slightly, and I’d hammer in the nails. He didn’t say a word except for clipped, one-word instructions: “Here.” “Nail.” “Stop.” He kept his back to me as much as possible, his shoulders hunched. I figured he was just in the zone, focused on getting the job done right.
It was awesome. Me and my dad, working side-by-side, a silent, efficient team. I could feel the muscles in my arm burn a little with each swing of the hammer. I was finally pulling my weight, contributing. I was helping my dad, being useful.
Just as I was about to start on a new board, Mom’s voice floated up from the house, clear and cheerful. “Boys! Lunch is ready! Come on in before it gets cold!”
Dad seemed to sag with relief at the sound of her voice. He dropped the board he was holding with a clatter. “Lunch,” he mumbled, as if the word itself were a lifeline. He didn't even look at me. He just turned and moved toward the ladder, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. He nearly missed the first rung.
I followed him down, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. We’d gotten a whole new section of the floor done. As I hit the ground, Jake clapped me on the shoulder, a big, sweaty hand landing hard.
“How was it, slugger?” he asked, a knowing look in his eye. “See? Your dad just needed the right partner to get the job done.”
“It was great,” I said, beaming with pride. “We work really well together.”
Tyler laughed, shaking his head as he got to his feet. “I bet you do. A real chip off the old block.”
I was tired, sweaty, and covered in sawdust, but it was a good tired. The kind of tired you feel after you’ve actually accomplished something. I couldn’t wait to eat a huge lunch and tell Mom all about how we were saving the treehouse, all of us, together.
Lunch rolls around, and the heat must have gotten to me, because I’m completely wiped. I must have dozed off for a bit on the porch swing, lulled into a daze by the buzz of cicadas and the distant drone of a lawnmower. When I finally stir, the sun has started its slow dip toward the treetops, painting the sky in hazy shades of orange. The air is thick and still. That’s when Dad stumbles up the path from the woods, looking like he’s just survived a shipwreck.
He’s soaked through, his shirt and shorts plastered to his body, and there are long streaks of dirt and what looks like mud across his chest and down his thighs. His face is still that deep, uneven red, blotchy and raw, like he’s been scrubbing it with sandpaper. As he gets closer, I see something else. There are a few dry streaks near his mouth and on his chin, but they aren't salt from sweat. They’re kind of crusty and white, flaking a little at the edges. Must be sawdust mixed with sweat, I figure. It gets everywhere when you’re working.
He’s breathing hard, short and shallow, and his shirt is untucked, damp in ways that don’t scream “just sawdust.” It’s a complete mess. The guys follow a few paces behind him, and they reek. It’s not just normal work-sweat. It’s a mix of that, lake water, and that sharp, earthy musk I smelled earlier, but now it’s ten times stronger. It’s a raw, almost animal scent, with a heavy undercurrent that I can’t quite place… something metallic and thick, potent like spent adrenaline. It’s the smell of a marathon, a fight, a victory.
Jake jogs up the porch steps and gives me a high-five, casual as ever, though his knuckles are red. “All good, man. Treehouse is on its way now. Your old man’s a real trooper.”
I blink through the sleepy haze, my brain slowly piecing together the story. They must have busted their asses out there, pushing through the heat and the hard labor. Dad, being too stubborn to quit, probably pushed himself way too far. It kinda sucks that I conked out and missed the final push. I would have killed to swing a hammer with them again, to feel useful for more than just twenty minutes.
Tyler comes up beside Jake, his face bright with a manic kind of energy. He claps his hands together with enthusiasm. “Yeah, your pap said that we might need to work on this beast for quite a few more days! It’s a bigger job than we thought.”
I see Dad flinch at that, a full-body shudder of what I assume is just pure, bone-deep exhaustion. He leans against the porch railing, his eyes closed.
Tyler continues, a sly grin spreading across his face as he looks straight at Dad. “Thing is, I don’t think we have all the right tools for the job. To really get into those deep, tight spots and finish the frame properly, we might need some… specialized equipment.” He winks at Jake. “I was talking to some of the guys from that new construction crew down the road the other day. A little ‘work exchange,’ you know? They were telling us about some of the big, black tools they keep in the neighborhood. Said they can pound anything into submission, no matter how stubborn it is.”
“Oh, cool!” I say, my eyes widening. “Like a pneumatic nailer or a powered auger? We could totally rent one for next weekend! That would be awesome!”
The look that passes between Jake and Tyler is electric. Tyler chokes back a laugh, turning it into a cough. Jake just grins at me, a wide, predatory smile. “Yeah, buddy. Exactly like that.”
Dad pushes himself off the railing. He catches my eye for just a second, and that horrible flush is still there, burning high on his cheekbones. His lips are a thin, white line. He looks right through me. “Thanks for the backup, kid,” he mutters, his voice a rough, broken thing, and then he pushes past us and disappears into the house. The screen door slams shut behind him. I hear the sound of the bathroom door locking and the shower turning on full blast a moment later.
Mom is in the kitchen, humming that same tune from this morning, completely oblivious. The smell of her famous meatloaf is starting to fill the house, warm and comforting. Jake and Tyler crash onto the living room couch, grabbing fresh sodas from the cooler. They pop the tabs in unison and trade a long, satisfied look over my head, a look that says the work might be done for today, but the project is far from over.
Damn, it's so cool having friends like them. Without them, I don’t know if me and my pap could ever fix that old treehouse. They really stepped up. What great guys.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
