Chapter Four #2
Even so, every time I bumped it on a door frame or nicked it against my thigh, the skin underneath pulsed with a fresh ache. It felt alive in a way nothing ever had before.
Through the warped glass of the shop’s back window, I caught a slant of sunlight throwing gold across the floor, catching every dust mote and speck of wood like glitter.
The rest of the world was quiet—no horses in the paddock, no trucks rolling by on the lane, just the slow, deliberate rasp of sandpaper against oak.
I peeked around the door and saw Quiad standing at the far bench, shoulders hunched, a smear of sawdust feathering up the back of his t-shirt.
His left arm braced the edge of the table; the right moved in steady, hard strokes, sanding the inside curve of a chair rail with a focus that made my brain short-circuit.
I watched the flex of his forearm, the way his jaw clenched and released in time with each pass.
He didn’t look up when I came in, but he’d known I was there.
He always did.
“Brought lunch,” I said, setting the sack on the nearest patch of clear worktop. I tried to sound casual, but my voice came out thinner than usual, stretched tight around the new secret burning on my wrist.
He paused, knuckles pale on the sandpaper, and looked over. His gaze did the slow sweep from my face to my hand, lingering on the way I hugged the hoodie sleeve to my chest. “You hurt?” he asked, voice so low it sounded more like a warning than a question.
I shook my head and tried to smile. “Just… rough night,” I lied. “Ransom had me test out some new designs for him. Kinda went overboard.” I dropped the sleeve a little and peeked at the edge of gauze, as if I was embarrassed and not hiding a literal brand of his name.
He set the wood aside and came over in three steps, boots loud on the floor. He reached for my hand, but hesitated, hovering inches above my wrist. “Let me see.”
I tried to back up, but he caught my elbow, gentle but impossible to escape. He thumbed the edge of the bandage and lifted it, checking for blood or broken skin, I don’t know. His touch sent a shiver up my arm.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, and this time there was a tremor, just enough to tell me he was worried.
“Only if I think about it,” I said, and forced a laugh. “So I try not to.”
He arched a brow, unconvinced, but let my hand go. I shoved both arms into the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, holding them there like a kid caught sneaking candy before dinner.
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the ancient drafting stool by the main bench.
I perched on it, the height forcing my legs to dangle a few inches from the ground.
He pulled a rag from the shelf, wiped the dust off his hands, then tore into the paper sack with a focus I recognized: if you didn’t attack the awkwardness head-on, it might consume you.
He fished out the cookies first, eyed them, then slid the whole stack toward me. “You made these?”
“Ma did,” I said, taking one and breaking it in half to give him the bigger piece.
He leaned back against the bench, folded his arms, and just watched me. It wasn’t hostile—not really. But the air felt loaded, like both of us were waiting for something to detonate.
“So what’s really up?” he asked, softer this time. “You get in a fight with Ransom?”
“Kind of,” I said, then winced. “Not, like, physical. He just—he dared me to do something, and I did. That’s all.”
Quiad narrowed his eyes, lips pressed in a thin line. “You don’t do dares.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I do now.”
He held my gaze for a long time. I could feel my cheeks getting hot, and not from the sun.
“Sunshine,” he said, and my pulse went wild. “No secrets.”
I swallowed, then nodded. “Tomorrow. I promise. I want to show you when it’s… better.”
He relaxed just a hair, then uncrossed his arms and reached for my face. His palm covered my cheek and the side of my jaw, thumb tracing the spot just below my eye, where freckles went wild in the summer.
I leaned into it, eyes closed for a second, and felt the world snap into focus. The pressure of his hand, the rough callus of his thumb, the way he tilted my face up until I had to meet his eyes.
“Okay,” he said, and his voice was pure steel. “Tomorrow. But I’ll be thinking about it until then.”
“Me too,” I whispered, because I couldn’t not.
He dropped his hand, then pulled me in by the back of my neck, pressing my forehead to his collarbone. I went limp against him, letting the heat and the weird, woodsy scent of his shirt surround me.
For a minute, he just held me there, breathing slow and deep. “Eat,” he said, finally releasing me. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
I obeyed, peeling the wrapper off my sandwich and taking a shaky bite. He watched every move, like he was cataloguing me for later. We ate in silence, just the two of us in the golden light, sawdust drifting down from the rafters.
Every time I reached for the next bite, the stretch of the bandage reminded me of what was underneath, still fresh and raw, still burning with the promise I’d made to myself.
After lunch, he showed me what he’d been working on: a chair, simple but beautiful, the wood oiled to a deep glow.
He had me run my hand along the finished rail, then watch as he joined the pieces together.
He talked about dovetail joints and grain direction, but the whole time, I could tell he was waiting for me to say more.
I wanted to—God, I wanted to just rip off the bandage and show him right then, watch his face go soft and proud and maybe a little bit angry—but I held back, letting the anticipation build until it felt like a live current in the room.
When it was time to go, he walked me to the door, hand braced against the jamb above my head. He dipped his head until our noses almost touched.
“Tomorrow,” he said again, like a warning.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
On the way out, I caught my reflection in the window: hoodie swallowed my frame, hair stuck up in three directions, cheeks flushed and lips bitten red. I looked nervous, desperate, maybe a little wild. But I also looked like someone with a secret worth keeping, if just for another day.
I flexed my wrist in the sunlight, feeling the sting, the heat, the weight of what I’d done.
Tomorrow, I’d show him.
And it’d be worth every second I’d waited.