Chapter Three
~ Quiad ~
I lay flat on my back, sheets wound around my legs like a restraint, my gaze locked to the cracked plaster above my bed. The moon outside the window was just a sliver, but its light cut a hard-edged line across the floor and landed square on my chest, bright enough to make the dark hairs stand up.
I should’ve been asleep hours ago, but the empty apartment pressed on my lungs like an old injury, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw Levi’s face: that unguarded look he’d given me when he snapped the bracelet shut on his wrist.
I hated leaving him at the main house. Hated it the way I hated losing grip on a tool mid-project, the way I hated unfinished work. He should’ve been here, stretched out in my bed, limbs wild and loose and his body heat spreading into mine.
Instead, he was a quarter acre and a dozen walls away, probably lying awake himself, and the ache of that distance knifed deeper than I wanted to admit.
The urge to go there, to just open his window and haul him out by the waist, was almost physical.
I flexed my fingers, working out the need, and the mattress creaked under my weight.
I’d built this bed myself when I first moved above the shop, the frame mortised and pegged from raw walnut, every corner sanded down by hand.
Most nights, the solidity of it was enough to keep me anchored.
Tonight, nothing could hold me still.
I turned my head. The clock on the dresser blinked 1:47. I’d been staring at the ceiling for three hours. Maybe four. Even the familiar hush of the shop below couldn’t settle my thoughts.
I reached over to the nightstand for my water, glass nearly empty. My hand brushed the corner of my phone, but I ignored it. If I texted him now, he’d come. He always did. That was the problem.
Instead, I stared at the line of tools mounted above my workbench: the chisels, the block plane, the fine-toothed saw, all gleaming in the thin blue light.
Order was how I kept the world from swallowing me.
Every handle in its place, every blade sharpened and oiled and turned just so.
But even with everything in its proper place, I felt wrong tonight. Unsettled. Over-wound.
My wrist itched. I glanced down and rolled it over, the new bracelet snug against my skin. Sunshine, in those tiny black letters. It was nothing but a strip of leather and a few grams of metal, but it may as well have been a brand. I liked the weight of it, the constant reminder of him.
The thought crept in: what would it feel like to have him marked everywhere—my hands, my chest, the back of my neck? My jaw clenched at the thought, teeth grinding out a rhythm to match my heartbeat.
A draft from the window brought the cold in, prickling over my arms. I didn’t mind it. Better than the flush that started in my gut every time I remembered how he’d leaned into me, trusting, eager, not even pretending he didn’t want to be claimed.
The contrast between how fragile he looked and how hard he had clung when I touched him.
I’d thought, after so long holding myself at arm’s length, that I’d be able to ease into this slow.
That the old discipline would carry me through the transition from protector to—whatever the hell I was now.
But it didn’t. The discipline just made me more aware of every second I had to hold back.
I untangled the sheets and swung my legs over the edge, bracing elbows on my knees. The floor was cold and rough under my feet, but it kept me awake.
I looked around the apartment: plain, spare, nothing in it I hadn’t made myself except the ancient fridge and the battered coffee pot.
The only sign of Levi in the place was the navy hoodie I’d left on the chair by the door.
He’d worn it last week, sleeves dragged over his hands, hood cinched so tight it framed his face like a punchline.
I wanted it to smell like him, but I’d washed it out of habit.
I’d have to fix that.
I stared out the window for a while, letting my eyes adjust to the dark.
The orchard was a shadowed blur, the trees just black forms huddled together.
Up the hill, the main house glowed soft gold from the kitchen, probably a lamp left on to ward off whatever ghosts haunted the place. My own ghosts didn’t respond to light.
I’d tried.
I lay back down, this time sprawled diagonal, hands behind my head. I closed my eyes and let my mind go where it wanted. I pictured waking up with Levi there, the warmth of his body pressed against my ribs, his hair matted to my jaw, the little puffs of his breath fogging my chest.
I’d curl a hand around his neck, thumb stroking the soft spot just below his ear, and he’d hum low in his throat, the way he did when he got what he wanted, but hadn’t expected to.
I let myself want it for a few minutes, just to see how much of it I could stand before it got dangerous. I lasted longer than I’d expected, but not much.
Eventually, exhaustion crept in, or maybe I just gave up fighting it. The next time I blinked, the sky outside had gone from black to that colorless not-quite-morning, the farm caught between night and day.
I lay there, still awake but finally numb, waiting for the house to come alive: the crow of the roosters, the first groan of the barn doors, the thud of boots on the porch.
In another hour, it’d be time to see him again. The thought calmed the restlessness a little, let it settle deeper in my bones instead of rattling around inside my skull.
I watched the sky grow lighter, the edge of the sun crawling up over the orchard. I flexed my hand, feeling the band dig into my wrist, and let myself smile, just for a second.
He was mine, and soon enough, everyone else would know it.
I didn’t so much wake as surface, lungs full of cold morning air and brain snapping to alert before the rest of me could protest. I rolled out of bed and landed hard, the shock of the floorboards on bare feet grounding me.
For a minute I just stood, taking inventory: hands, back, neck, all accounted for. Only my patience felt worn thin at the edges, but that was a familiar ache.
Coffee first, always.
The kitchen was a strip of counter and a hot plate wedged between the fridge and the workbench, but it did the job. I rinsed the old grounds from the percolator and filled it with a scoop more than necessary. I liked the bitterness—it kept me sharp.
As the water boiled, I threw open the window, letting the bite of dawn fill the place. The whole apartment smelled like burnt motor oil and soap, with an undercurrent of cedar dust from last night’s project.
I breathed it in, steady and deep.
The shop below was already waiting for me.
I padded down the narrow steps, mug in hand, flicking the lights on as I went.
Every shadow snapped into focus: the stack of sanded chair legs lined up like soldiers, the new order of steel files gleaming beside the bandsaw, the half-built credenza on the main table waiting for its next layer of finish.
I ran my hand over the surface, feeling for splinters, and found none. I always checked anyway.
There was a rhythm to this, every movement nailed to a sequence: unlock the back door, prime the air compressor, check the glue-ups, oil the blades. It was more ritual than necessity—some days I barely needed to do anything before the town started up—but I liked the comfort of habit.
The sun hadn’t cleared the ridge yet, but already the world was coming to life. The distant thud of boots on gravel, a rooster crowing like it owned the place, the far-off engine of Pa’s truck as he headed out for feed.
I paused at the workbench and looked out the window. The main house glowed with that fake-gold light they put in old fixtures, a color that didn’t exist anywhere else on the property.
I pictured Levi behind one of those windows, hair sticking up, feet curled under his knees on the kitchen stool, probably sketching the patterns in the steam rising from his mug.
It did something to me, the thought of him waking up just out of sight. I flexed my hand until the knuckles popped, then went back to work.
I spent the first hour sanding a drawer front, but my mind kept drifting.
Every little movement—every inhale, every muscle twitch—pulled me closer to the idea of him, like there was a wire running from my chest to wherever he was.
Even the sound of the sander became background noise to the drumbeat of his name. I tried to ignore it.
Didn’t work.
Eventually, I gave in. I wiped down the tools, set the project aside, and went back up to the apartment. I changed shirts, picked the one that didn’t have varnish stains on it, and pulled on my heaviest boots.
I checked my reflection in the warped mirror by the door. Still looked like hell, but it’d have to do. I splashed water on my face, ran my hand over the burr of my hair, and grunted at the cold.
The bracelet caught on the cuff of my sleeve as I dried off. I turned it so the letters faced out, the black imprint neat against my wrist. Sunshine. The word felt weird on me, but I kept it anyway. Maybe I just liked the way his name sat next to my pulse.
By the time I stepped outside, the sun had started burning the mist off the orchard. Rows of trees faded in and out of view, the ground still slick with dew.
Every breath I took came with a lungful of sweet rot from the compost pile and the faint smoke from the woodstove in the main house. The gravel path crunched under my boots, each step loud in the hush of morning.
Halfway up the slope, I heard voices. Bodean yelling at the chickens, his whoop bouncing off the barn walls; Harlow muttering to the horses, their stomps and snorts rising in reply.
The farm was loud, but it wasn’t the noise that made it alive—it was the friction between all the moving parts, the way every task depended on the next, a living thing that never stopped demanding.