Chapter 27 #2
The evening enfolds me, cool after the warmth inside.
Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I cross the short path to the workshop.
The little cedar building sits half-hidden behind a thicket of ferns, the roof dark with rain stains, the small porch draped in wind chimes and a string of faded lanterns.
I thumb the old key from my pocket and hesitate at the door.
It’s been weeks since I stepped inside. The idea of opening it now, of sharing the space that’s always been mine, tightens a knot deep inside me. This is where I come to breathe, to sand down the stress of the day, to turn scraps into artwork.
It’s not just a shop.
It’s my sanctuary.
The hinges groan as I turn the handle.
When I flick on the switch, dust motes swirl in the lamplight.
Cedar shavings and old varnish linger in the air, sweet beneath the sharper tang of metal and oil.
My half-finished projects crowd every surface, birdhouses lined up on the workbench, a carved stool waiting for polish, and a pile of wood strips destined to become toy trains.
Behind me, the boards creak, and Jared lingers in the doorway, careful not to step inside without invitation. “Wow. It’s like Santa’s workshop in here.”
A flush creeps up my neck. “Yeah, a bit.”
He looks around with reverence. “It smells like you.”
I huff a laugh, but it’s shaky. “Sawdust and oil?”
“Warmth and home,” he corrects, and the simple words, the simple statement, settle under my skin.
It’s not my pheromones he equates with my scent, but the things I love and surround myself with by choice. “Come inside and close the door.”
I set down my tool bag and reach inside for the flannel-wrapped dragon, carrying it to the bench and setting it down in the halo of lamplight. The space stirs with a quiet energy, as if it’s been waiting for my return. And maybe it’s okay I didn’t come back alone.
I unwrap the dragon from my flannel, placing it in the center of the light. The carved cedar glows warm under the direct beam, grain lines swirling across its body.
I run my finger along the broken wing, assessing the split. “Not as bad as it looked.”
Jared leans over my shoulder, close enough for his breath to stir the fine hairs at my nape. “Are you sure he said this is a kid’s toy? It looks like a sculpture.”
I set the piece down. “Blake’s a good carver.”
My hands move with the rhythm of routine, gathering wood glue, fine-grit sandpaper, small clamps, a damp rag, and a toothpick for application. Each item rests on the table in the order I’ll need it, a methodical arrangement born from years of practice.
Jared pulls out the chair across from me and sits, elbows on the worktable, watching. In the harsh light, shadows carve hollows beneath his cheekbones, but his eyes reflect the lamp’s glow.
I take a square of sandpaper and begin to smooth the broken edges, the light strokes releasing the scent of cedar into the air. Dust gathers on my fingertips, fine as powder.
“The break needs to be rough enough for the glue to bond,” I explain, working the sandpaper in small circles. “But not so rough it won’t fit together cleanly.”
Jared’s attention rests on my hands, his focus complete, and my skin prickles.
“Want to learn?” The question slips out before I consider what I’m offering. Not just knowledge, but proximity.
His smile blooms, lighting him up from within. “Yeah.”
I push the dragon toward him. “Hold it like this, with the wing face up.” I position his fingers to support the body without touching the break. “You want pressure evenly distributed so nothing warps while we work.”
His palms dwarf the dragon, but he adjusts his grip with surprising delicacy. “Is this right?”
“Yeah.” I uncap the glue. “Perfect. Now hold still.”
I wipe the dust off my hands with a clean rag, then reach for the glue bottle. It clicks open, and I squeeze a thin bead along the break, using the toothpick to spread it.
“Now, the wing.” I lift it, aligning the grain patterns. “You have to press firmly, but not so hard you squeeze all the glue out.”
His other hand rises to help, steadying the wing as I set it in place. Our fingers touch again, longer this time, his skin warm on mine. A current runs up my arm, but I keep my focus on the task.
“Now we clamp it.” I reach for the smallest clamp, its metal jaws padded with rubber. “This part’s tricky. Too tight, and you’ll crush the wood. Too loose, and the bond won’t hold.”
I start to position the clamp, but pause. “Here, you do it.”
Our hands trade places, his wrapping around the clamp while mine supports the dragon. His movements mirror my earlier demonstration, gentle but assured.
“Tighten it until you feel resistance,” I instruct. “Then, a quarter turn more.”
The clamp creaks as he adjusts it, the padded teeth finding purchase on the wood. A tiny bead of glue squeezes out along the seam.
“Perfect.” I hand him the damp rag. “Now dab away the excess before it dries. Otherwise, it’ll show in the finished piece.”
He wipes carefully, his large hands somehow graceful with the delicate task.
“You’re good at this,” I say, my focus caught on the sure, careful way he moves.
Jared’s fingers still on the dragon. “I have a good teacher.”
The compliment warms me, loosening a knot between my shoulder blades I didn’t realize I carried. I bring out a second clamp to secure the other side of the wing, and our fingers collide. Neither of us pulls away. His skin glides over mine, calluses brushing calluses, rough meeting rough.
Time stretches, the silence filled with the hum of the lamp and the growing wind outside, rattling the windows. But inside the ring of lamplight, the world narrows to just us.
“I never thanked you properly,” Jared says, “for letting me stay.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do, though.” His fingers brush mine again, deliberate this time. “You’re amazing, you know that? You keep everyone together, even when it’s breaking you down.”
My throat tightens. “I’m just doing what needs doing.”
“No.” He sets the dragon on the table and leaves his chair to come around to my side. “It’s more than that. It’s who you are.”
His hand rises slowly, giving me time to retreat, to hold the wall I’ve maintained all week. But I remain still as his palm cups my cheek, his callused thumb grazing the corner of my mouth.
“Emily.” My name in his mouth sounds like a question, a plea, a statement of fact.
“This isn’t—” My objection dissolves as his thumb traces my jawline, the gentle pressure unraveling my resistance.
“It is,” he whispers, leaning in.
The first brush of his lips over mine is tentative, a question I answer by leaning in. His hand slips to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. Chili peppers and peanuts linger on his breath from dinner, and beneath it all lives the unmistakable warmth of Jared.
Nothing about this kiss echoes our first desperate collision in the kitchen, all hunger and impulse. It moves with reverence instead, every motion intentional. His free hand finds mine on the table, fingers interlacing, palm to palm.
The scent of cedar and glue in the air mingles with the salt of skin and the growing push of salt air and driftwood as Jared’s pheromones rise to surround us. The combination melts something long frozen inside me, like a warped board finally yielding to heat and patience.
When we part, Jared’s forehead rests against mine, his breath warm on my lips. “I keep thinking I’m making things harder for you. That maybe I’m another weight you have to carry.”
“You don’t make things harder,” I whisper. “You stir up the parts of me I buried to survive. It’s not the same as dragging me down.”
“I know.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “And I want to be there while you patch yourself back together. If you’ll let me.”
The dragon sits forgotten on the table, its wing held firm in the clamp’s embrace, beginning the slow process of becoming whole again.
I cover his hand with mine, turning my head to kiss his palm.
“I’d like that,” I say, the words a surrender.
I can’t fight the pull between us anymore, the way two broken pieces find their shape again when they finally align.