Thin Walls #2
“Stubborn.” A faint, dry line appears at the corner of his mouth. It’s not a smile, but it’s the closest I’ve seen to one.
“Runs in the family.”
The mention of Jesse hangs in the cold air, but it doesn’t snap the connection this time. It feels different now—less like a wall between us and more like a shared, quiet understanding.
We finish the runs. Wyatt opens the clinic door and lets Dolly out.
The collie steps onto the cleared concrete, her nose up, sniffing the sharp, cold air.
She moves cautiously, her white paws checking the boundaries of the path.
She doesn’t have her sight, but she knows this run, turning to navigate the corner with confidence.
“She knows the walls.”
“Animals learn the layout fast.” Wyatt leans his weight on the shovel handle, watching Dolly’s nose work the air. “They don’t spend time wishing the fence wasn’t there. They just find the path inside it.”
“And people?”
“People spend all their time fighting the fence.” Wyatt stares out toward the horizon where the white peaks of Angel’s Peak meet the blue sky. “Until they break themselves against it.”
I look at him. He stands tall, his broad shoulders squared against the mountain, but there’s a loneliness to his silhouette that makes my chest ache. He’s built this shelter as a fortress, a place where he can control the boundaries, where nothing has to die if he works hard enough.
But it’s a prison, too.
“Let’s get some food.” He shoulders his shovel and turns back toward the clinic door.
We clean the tools and step back into the mudroom, shedding our wet boots and gloves. The clinic kitchen is warm, the woodstove in the hall having heated the interior. Wyatt puts a pot of coffee on the small stove, the dark, rich scent filling the room.
He sets two mugs on the counter, then pulls a loaf of bread and some cheese from the small fridge. He cuts the bread with thick, uneven slices, his hands steady and capable.
“Thank you.” I take the plate from him.
We sit on the two oak stools, the space between us agonizingly small. Wyatt turns his stool slightly to face me, and our knees brush.
Neither of us pulls away.
The pressure of his knee resting against mine is a hot, heavy anchor, sending a slow tremor up my thighs. The heat of his body radiates across the tiny gap, warm and solid. His fingers wrap around his coffee mug, the scarred skin of his forearm visible where his sleeve is rolled up.
“You work too hard.” I leave the bread untouched on my plate, my eyes tracing the pulse beating at the base of his throat.
“The work doesn’t stop because it’s hard. It doesn’t stop because you’re tired. It doesn’t stop because you’re scared. It just keeps coming.” He takes a slow sip of coffee, his eyes fixed on me now, ignoring the window. “And you either keep moving or you drown.”
“You can’t outrun the county or Cascade by plowing drives at three in the morning. You’re going to kill yourself trying.”
“I’m not going to lose this place.” He sets his cup down with a slow click against the counter. “Jesse and I cleared this slope. We hauled the timber for the runs. We spent months sleeping on the concrete because we couldn’t afford beds. I’m not letting some developer scrape it flat for a hot tub.”
“I don’t want them to scrape it either.” My voice is barely loud enough to cross the inches between our faces.
“Then why are you trying to sell?” He looks up, his grey eyes searching mine, dropping briefly to my lips before rising back to my eyes.
“I have to.” My voice is small. “I have bills. Student loans. A life in the city that isn’t free. The money from Cascade would change my life.”
“I can run the place by myself.” Wyatt’s jaw tightens.
“It’s too much work for one man.”
“Well, that’s my problem, not yours.” His voice drops, gravel-rough. “I don’t understand why you want to sell what Jesse built.”
“I don’t want to destroy it.” My gaze drops to his mouth, then quickly down to the grain of the counter. “But every time I look at Atlas, Jesse’s there in the garage. I have to go back to a place where I can control the boundaries. Where I don’t have to look at the pieces.”
Wyatt leans in closer, his knee pressing more firmly against mine.
The contact is scorching.
“You think you’re safe in the city?” His voice drops to a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through my collarbone. “You think you control anything from a phone headset? You’re just hiding behind the wall. Hiding so you don’t have to feel the wind.”
“I’m safe there,” I insist, my chin rising, though my breath is shallow, my chest rising and falling rapidly. “I’m useful. I help people.”
“But nobody helps you.”
He reaches out. This time, he doesn’t stop.
His hand is bare, his skin calloused, rough, and burning hot as he slides his palm slowly up the side of my neck.
His thumb rests right over my pulse point, feeling the frantic, wild leap of my heart.
The touch is direct, skin-on-skin, and a delicious shiver runs down my spine.
My eyes flutter closed, my cheek leaning heavily, instinctively into the cradle of his hand.