Chapter Five
~ Quiad ~
I was already at the shop when the sun broke open behind the orchard, bleeding light through the warped windowpanes. The world outside was a cold wash, but in here it was all dust and glue and the click of my own pulse in my ears.
I’d been at it since three, hands finding their way through habit: block plane, chisel, sandpaper, repeat. Even when I didn’t have a job lined up, I made pieces for the sake of making them. The rhythm kept me from spinning out.
Today I couldn’t settle. The bandsaw blade was too loud.
Every joint I mortised felt an eighth off, no matter how many times I checked the fit.
When I finally blew the wood shavings off the bench, it hung in the air instead of settling, catching the sun and making it look like the whole shop was on fire.
My mind kept replaying yesterday. The lunch break with Levi, the way he’d kept his left arm tucked close, the quick flinch when I touched it. He’d been hiding something, and I hadn’t pressed, but the image of his wrist wrapped in fresh white gauze had burned itself into my brain.
He was supposed to come in this morning, help me joint a couple planks for the new gate on Ma’s garden.
I heard the gravel crunch outside, light and tentative, then the slow drag of boots up the back steps.
The shop door creaked open, and he stood in the frame, backlit and wary, hoodie pulled over his hair and the sleeves bunched tight at the cuffs.
I didn’t say anything, just watched him. He hesitated, maybe waiting for me to break the silence. When I didn’t, he stepped in and closed the door behind him, the lock clicking in the hush.
The morning hung heavy between us, the air thick with the scent of oil and the old panic I tried to keep out of sight.
“Hey,” he said, voice too bright for the hour.
I grunted, wiped my hands on a rag, and nodded at the far bench. “Wood’s on the table. Get the glue.”
He went over, eyes tracking every move I made.
I could see his hands trembling as he peeled off the hoodie, setting it on the stool.
The bandage was visible now, a stripe of sterile white circling his left wrist, blotched at the edge with faint, angry pink.
I felt the way my jaw clenched, a current running down the back of my neck.
“You wanna tell me what happened?” I said, barely above a growl.
He tensed, jaw working. “It’s nothing.”
I crossed the floor in three steps. He backed up until his calves hit the bench. I let my shadow fall over him, every inch of me braced. “Don’t lie.”
He swallowed. His gaze flicked to the bandage, then up at me. “It’s not—I wanted it. I asked for it.”
It should’ve been a relief, but it landed in my chest like a nail. “Who.”
He stared at the wall. “Ransom,” he mumbled, and then, stronger: “Ransom did it. But I made him.”
I forced myself to loosen my fists. Ransom was a bastard, but he never did anything without being dared, and Levi had never lied to me, not about this kind of thing.
“What was it?” I asked.
Levi looked down. His hair fell into his face, hiding the red that bloomed across his cheeks. “I’ll show you. Just… don’t freak out, okay?”
I grunted. “Can’t make that promise.”
He snorted, a quick burst of nerves, then picked at the edge of the wrap with his thumb.
The gauze stuck a little, then came off slow, peeling back to reveal a patch of plastic-wrapped skin.
Underneath, the flesh was swollen and shiny with ointment, but the letters were clear as day, black and beautiful and sharp: my name, inked along the inside of his wrist in a script I recognized as his own design.
It hit me like a punch. I stared, not trusting my voice. Levi watched my face, biting his lip so hard it went white.
“I wanted—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I wanted it to be real. I know you gave me the bracelet, and I love it, but I wanted something that couldn’t come off. I wanted…” His voice trailed off, words dissolving into the heat of the room.
It took everything I had to keep my hands at my sides. I wanted to grab him, to bite the ink and taste the salt in his skin, to mark him all over again so nobody could ever mistake who he belonged to.
Instead, I said, “You’re a damn idiot, you know that?”
He nodded, a weird little laugh catching in his throat. “Yeah. I know.”
I reached out and traced the edge of the tattoo with my thumb. The skin was raw, feverish, but he didn’t flinch. He let me touch him, let me see what he’d done, and in that moment I wanted to burn the whole world to the ground just to keep him safe.
I looked at him, really looked, and saw the way his eyes went soft when he thought I wasn’t mad anymore. The color in his cheeks, the tremor in his hands.
“You hungry?” I asked, because I didn’t trust myself to say anything that mattered yet.
He shrugged. “Little bit.”
I grabbed the thermos from the desk, poured two cups of coffee, and handed him one. He took it, sipped, then set it down and licked his lips.
“Are you mad?” he asked, voice gone small.
I stared at the ink, the way it curved around the bone of his wrist. I shook my head. “No,” I said, and I meant it. “Not at you.”
He looked up, waiting for the rest.
I tried to explain, but the words got tangled. What I wanted to say: I love you so hard it scares me. What came out instead: “You ever do this again, you tell me first. Got it?”
He nodded, and this time his smile didn’t try to hide.
The shop was quiet but for the creak of the rafters and the distant caw of a crow out back. I reached for him, slow, and pulled him in, pressed his hand flat to my chest so he could feel the tattoo on my skin, the echo of his name under my ribs. Something I’d never told him about.
He stood there, close enough that our breaths mingled, and for a minute the whole world felt like it was holding still, waiting for us to move.
“Next time you want something permanent,” I said, voice low, “just ask me.”
He let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”
I let myself smile, just a little. “Good.”
We stood like that for a long time, Levi’s hand against my chest, his heart hammering under my palm. The morning sun kept climbing, and in the gold wash of the shop, I didn’t feel like a monster anymore. Just a man, lucky enough to have someone who wanted him, even when it hurt.
The tattoo didn’t leave my thoughts for a second, even after the silence fell between us. Levi kept his hand pressed to my chest, like he wanted to memorize the feel of my heartbeat through the denim.
The light through the shop windows was sharper now, catching the edge of his cheekbone and the fine shiver in his jaw. I caught myself wanting to count every freckle, every mark, every place my name would someday be written on him.
He started to pull back, probably embarrassed at how long we’d stood locked together, but I didn’t let him. I wanted to savor the way he looked at me now—open, unguarded, like I was the only thing keeping him from unraveling.
Maybe I was.
He glanced down at the fresh ink. “It’s still kind of ugly,” he said, picking at the edge of the wrap. “Ransom said it’d look better after it peeled.”
“It’s perfect,” I said. My voice sounded off, too thick and raw. “Let me see it again.”
He smiled, a quick, private thing, then held out his arm.
I took his hand and turned it palm-up, tracing the line of black letters.
They were swollen and a little weepy, skin angry at the intrusion, but nothing had ever looked more right.
The script was elegant, flourished, nothing like the work Ransom did for drunk tourists.
I wanted to drag my tongue along the curve of each letter, to learn the taste of it.
I watched Levi watch me. He bit his lip, nervous, his eyes flickering up to my face and away, like he was checking to see if I’d changed my mind.
“You really like it?” he whispered.
I made a sound, low and guttural, and before I could think better of it, I brought his hand up and kissed the tattoo, careful at first, then with more pressure, letting him feel the heat of my mouth through the wrap.
He gasped—actually gasped, like he hadn’t expected it to feel like anything at all. But I could tell he liked it.
I let the moment stretch, holding his gaze, then I pulled him in by the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t resist. He stepped right into the space between us, his whole body yielding, and pressed his head to my collarbone like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.
He was warm. So fucking warm. I ran my hand up his back, feeling the muscles there, the subtle tremble in his shoulders. I thought about all the times he’d slept under my roof, just a dozen yards away and untouchable, and how that boundary didn’t exist anymore.
I needed to have him, right then, with the urgency of a man who’d waited too long and didn’t trust the world not to rip this away.
I leaned down, caught his jaw in my hand, and kissed him hard.
Not like yesterday, not the tentative kind.
This was all tongue, all teeth, all the things I’d ever wanted to do to him pressed into a single, wordless promise.
He tasted like sugar cookies and coffee and something wild, something I’d never found anywhere else.
He made a noise, muffled against my mouth, and clung to the front of my shirt with both hands. I could feel the scratch of the hoodie’s fabric, the band of gauze on his wrist pressing into my skin. Every inch of him was alive, hungry, and for the first time I let myself take as much as I wanted.
I bent and lifted him, just straight-up hauled him off the floor, and he went with it, his legs clamping my hips, his arms a vise around my neck.
He was laughing, breathless, not from joy but from shock, maybe disbelief that I’d actually go this far.
I carried him to the back stairs, slow on purpose so he’d know there was no hurry, no risk that I’d drop him or change my mind.