Chapter 118: Crafted with Care
Jon's Perspective
The next few hours passed in a blur of motion—an almost meditative rhythm of sawdust in the air, the sharp whine of drills, and the soft scrape-and-click of a measuring tape being extended, retracted, extended again. The workshop had a kind of reverent silence to it, broken only by the occasional hum of machinery or the creak of the wooden floor beneath our boots. Ron didn't talk much, not that I expected him to. He never really did when he was in the zone. But his hands spoke volumes—steady, deliberate, completely sure of themselves. They moved like they knew exactly what needed to be done, as if every cut and screw had already been rehearsed in his mind a hundred times.
I was the assistant, the shadow, the guy who held things in place, passed tools, and drilled when instructed. And honestly? That was fine by me. Watching Ron work was like watching choreography—everything timed, everything intentional. If woodworking were a performance, he was the principal dancer. I was the guy offstage making sure the spotlight was hitting the right mark.
And what we were building? It wasn't just a cat tower. It was The cat tower. A feline fortress. A miniature kingdom. Ghost was about to get the Taj Mahal of cat architecture.
I realized, somewhere between holding up a long wooden panel and watching Ron install tiny staircase steps with almost surgical precision, that this wasn't just construction. It was craftsmanship. Art, even. Ron didn't waste a single movement. Every action served a purpose—from how he measured twice before cutting, to the way he wiped his tools with a clean cloth before setting them down just so. No part of his process felt rushed or careless. It was...respectful, almost. Like the work deserved that level of attention.
And that respect? It rubbed off on me. I hadn't said it aloud—and probably never would, knowing how that conversation might go—but I respected Ron more in that moment than I ever had before. Not just for what he could do with wood and nails, but for the quiet, meticulous way he did it. The focus. The pride. It was something to admire.
Eventually, after what felt like both a few minutes and a full workday, we stepped back to assess our creation. The tower stood proud in the middle of the shop floor like some modernist sculpture—multi-tiered, thoughtfully designed, with perches at various heights, a gently sloping ramp, and even a small cubby shaped like a little house tucked into one corner. Everything about it was sturdy, polished, and surprisingly stylish. Ghost was about to live better than most college freshmen, and with better furniture too.
Ron crossed his arms, giving the tower a once-over and a slow, approving nod. "Only thing left is the finish," he said, almost to himself.
I glanced over. "Want me to help with that part too?"
He shook his head, expression unreadable as usual. "No. Takes multiple coats. Gotta wait two hours between each. Not worth your time sitting around watching varnish dry."
I chuckled. "That's fair."
"I'll have it ready for you tomorrow. You can come pick it up then."
"Thanks, Ron. Really. This means a lot."
He made a noise—a low grunt that could've meant 'you're welcome' or maybe 'okay, that's enough talking now' or 'get out of my shop before I put you to work on a bookshelf.' Honestly, it was hard to tell with him. But whatever it meant, it wasn't unfriendly. If anything, it felt like his version of a high-five.
Either way, I got the message. He was cool with me. That was enough.
I wiped the dust off my jeans and headed upstairs, hoping to catch Sam before I left. Her door was cracked open, and inside I found her perched cross-legged on her bed, completely absorbed in her laptop. College brochures and handwritten notes were scattered around her like autumn leaves. She didn't notice me at first, too lost in whatever school application wormhole she'd fallen into, so I knocked lightly on the doorframe.
She looked up, a little startled, then broke into a smile. "Oh! Hey!"
"Didn't want to leave without saying hi," I said, stepping inside. "Tower's almost finished. Ron's handling the varnish tonight."
She leaned back, arms stretched over her head, wearing that small, satisfied smirk she got when something went exactly the way she predicted. "That's because you're charming, and he secretly likes you."
I raised an eyebrow. "Secretly?"
She laughed, then leaned over and kissed me—quick, warm, familiar. "Drive safe, dork."
"Always do."
I made my way back down the hallway and out the front door, the scent of sawdust and varnish still clinging faintly to my clothes. As I stepped into the late afternoon air, I felt something settle in my chest—not heavy, not sharp. Just...a quiet warmth. That hum you get when, for once, everything feels like it's falling into place. No drama. No chaos. Just a good day.
Cat tower was built.
My girlfriend's dad approved of me.
All was well.
And tomorrow, Ghost would get a palace.