Chapter Three #2
He took it all in, blue eyes round with something between awe and longing.
I watched him, watched the way he moved—slow, deliberate, almost reverent.
He wandered over to a rack of hand planes, reached out and hovered his fingers just over the brass handle of a Lie-Nielsen No. 7, then drew back as if it would bite.
"Go ahead," I said. "It's just a tool."
He glanced at me, waiting for the punchline. There wasn't one. He picked it up, turning it over in both hands, thumb tracing the polished curve of the knob.
For a second, I thought he might ask permission before putting it down, but instead he lined it up exactly with the edge of the workbench, squaring it by sight and touch.
I felt something hot coil in my gut.
He drifted along the wall, stopping to touch a chisel here, a rasp there. Each time, his fingers moved slow, careful not to scar the finish or draw blood. I catalogued every movement, every flex of tendon and micro-gesture, and found myself getting hard beneath my fatigue pants.
Jesus.
I turned to the table saw, made a show of checking the blade, even though it was sharp enough to split a hair. I needed something to do with my hands, or I'd use them for the wrong thing.
"You ever work with wood?" I asked, voice a little rough.
He nodded, eyes still on the tools. "Shop class, mostly. I built a jewelry box for my mom once. She never used it, but I liked the smell. It's—"
He paused, inhaled deep.
"It's good in here," he finished, voice softer now.
"Better than bleach and ammonia," I said.
He laughed, and I filed it away. It sounded less fragile here.
He moved to the central island, where I'd laid out a series of maple slats for a commission. He ran a finger down the grain of the longest board, then stopped at the router I'd left plugged in. He touched the power switch, then drew his hand back, almost guilty.
"You want to try?" I said. "It's easy."
He looked at me, surprise open on his face.
"I don't want to mess anything up," he said.
"You won't," I said. I moved closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin, and plugged the router in with a click. "Just follow the line."
He hovered his hands over the handles, uncertain.
I reached past him, wrapped his fingers around the left grip, mine over his, and guided the other hand to the right. He stiffened, but didn't pull away.
I said, "You don't have to be gentle. Machines respect force."
I pressed down, guiding the router along the length of the board, our hands moving as one.
The motor screamed to life, shavings peeling away in fragrant curls.
He flinched at the noise, but then grinned, a real grin this time, as the router bit sank into the wood and left a perfect bead along the edge.
"That's it," I said, low. "Steady pressure."
He kept at it, arms straining, jaw set, and I let my grip linger just a second too long before letting go.
When the pass was finished, he lifted the router and looked at the clean, pale line he'd made. "Nice," he said, almost surprised.
I nodded, watching the way his hands trembled from the vibration.
"You're a natural," I said.
He wiped his palms on his borrowed sweats, then tried to hide the blush that had crept up his neck.
"You do this every day?" he asked.
"Most days," I said. "Keeps me busy."
He wandered the shop for a while, poking at things, running his hands over the surfaces with a kind of quiet hunger. I found myself tracking him through the dust, the way a predator might track wounded prey, except the urge wasn't to kill—it was to own, to claim.
He stopped at a shelf of half-finished projects—a set of chess pieces, each one carved to resemble a different breed of farm animal; a hand-turned bowl with turquoise inlay; a small sculpture of an osprey, wings half spread, talons extended. He picked it up, thumb caressing the edge of the beak.
"This is amazing," he said.
I shrugged. "Just something to keep my hands from getting idle."
He glanced at me, head tilted. "You ever sell any of it?"
"Sometimes," I said. "Mostly to people from out of town or the older crowd. The locals prefer Walmart in the next town over."
He snorted, then caught himself and put the osprey back with delicate care. He turned to face me, arms crossed again, hoodie sleeves swallowed his hands. "Thanks for letting me—" He stopped, searching for the word. "See all this."
I watched him for a beat, weighing my words. I wanted to tell him he could see it every day, for the rest of his life, if he just stayed put and let me take care of him.
I wanted to tell him I was close to losing my shit every time he touched something, that his hands had more power over me than anything else in the room.
Instead, I said, "Anytime."
He stared at me a little longer, like he was waiting for a punchline or maybe an order. I gave him neither.
Instead, I turned and started to clean up the workbench, stacking the boards, wiping down the surfaces. He joined in without being asked, picking up stray shavings and putting tools back in their slots.
We worked together in silence, the easy, unspoken kind. Every so often, our arms would brush or our hands would overlap on a tool, and he'd freeze for a half-second, then go on like nothing happened.
It was a long time before either of us said anything. When we finally finished, I switched off the lights and held the door for him as we stepped into the dusk.
He shivered at the cold.
I shrugged off the urge to pull him against my chest, instead handed him a flannel from the hook by the door. He took it, fingers brushing mine, and I let the contact linger, memorizing the feel of his skin.
He put the shirt on over the hoodie. He looked ridiculous, but also perfect.
"You want to head back?" I said.
He nodded, teeth chattering. "Yeah. Unless you have more work?"
I looked at him, then at the shop, then back. "Not today."
We walked the gravel in silence, side by side this time.
When we reached the house, I let him go in first, just to watch the way his body moved, loose now, less guarded.
I locked up behind us and turned to find him staring at me, half-smile on his face, eyes bright in the hallway light. For the first time in a long time, I couldn't wait for tomorrow.
The second we crossed the threshold, I felt it—the shift in air pressure, the charge that meant we were no longer alone.
Newt hesitated in the entryway, arms full of borrowed flannel, hair mussed by the wind and woodshop dust. I liked the look on him. It was better than the hollowed-out scarecrow from this morning, but still not the final form I wanted.
He needed another week, maybe two, to fill out, to forget what it felt like to brace for a punch every time someone said his name.
I closed the door and turned to find Ma standing at the far end of the hall, arms crossed, gaze like a hawk’s.
She wore a faded house dress, the kind with buttons up the front and pockets big enough to hold a whole chicken.
Her white hair was up in a bun, not a strand out of place.
If she’d been born a hundred years earlier, she’d have run this town with an iron fist and a shotgun.
She gave Newt the kind of look that could strip paint from a barn, then transferred her focus to me. “What is he doing here?” she asked, voice sharp enough to cut timber.
I didn’t let Newt answer. He started to, but I raised a hand and shut it down. “He’s staying,” I said. My tone was flat, final. No room for argument.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re bringing a Bridger into this house?”
I let the silence build, made sure she felt the full weight of it.
“I’m keeping him,” I said. The words hung there. For a second, even I wasn’t sure what I meant, but the effect was immediate.
Ma’s jaw tensed. She looked from me to Newt and back, weighing something, then gave the tiniest nod. “Your father won’t like it.”
“My house,” I said. “My rules.”
Another pause, a battle of wills that played out in two square feet of linoleum and forty years of family history.
Finally, she nodded again, a little deeper, and turned on her heel. “If he’s here, he pulls his weight. That’s all.”
She vanished into the kitchen, the echo of her authority lingering in the air like old gunpowder.
I exhaled, slow and steady, then glanced at Newt. He was staring at me with something like horror, or awe, or maybe both.
“You didn’t have to—” he started.
I cut him off. “Yeah, I did.”
He blinked, mouth opening, then closing. He looked smaller now, not from fear, but from the realization that there was no way out. He’d been claimed, marked, and all it had taken was four words.
I stepped in, close enough to crowd his space. He didn’t move away. If anything, he tilted up, met my gaze head-on. “You get it now?” I said, low.
He swallowed, the line of his throat working hard. “Yeah,” he said. “I get it.”
I wanted to touch him, but I held back. There’d be time for that. First, I needed to make sure he was all the way mine.
“You hungry?” I asked, voice softer now.
He nodded.
I jerked my chin toward the kitchen. “Go on. Ma won’t bite.”
He shuffled off, shoulders hunched, but I caught the glint of something bright in his eyes as he passed.
When the house settled into silence again, I allowed myself a thin smile.
I’d made my move.
Tomorrow, I’d make sure he never forgot it.