The Builder’s Son #3
When he finally sank into her, her fingers tightened in his hair, and she whispered his name like it was the only word she remembered. Their rhythm was sweet and urgent, the fire crackling nearby like a sigh, the stars above them blurring into one glowing, infinite sky.
And when they climaxed—together—it was as if something holy passed between them, as if the grove itself bent inward to shelter the moment.
He collapsed against her, chest heaving, his body humming with pleasure and disbelief. She was beneath him, around him, her heartbeat inside his soul.
They lay tangled together, the fire crackling low, the remnants of their meal scattered, forgotten. Above them, the old pergola creaked softly in the breeze. Dolly snored at the foot of the platform, and a moth circled lazily above their heads.
Nic cradled Helen to his chest, her body warm and heavy with satisfaction. He kissed the top of her head, his hand moving in slow circles over her back, and whispered, “I never want this night to end.”
After their first rendezvous in this wonderous place, the hunger between them had only grown.
The threshold they’d crossed wasn’t just physical—it had changed something unspoken.
What had once been longing turned into a low, constant ache to be near one another, to feel one another, to claim stolen moments in a world that didn’t yet have a place for them.
It wasn’t just Nic’s desire that intensified.
Helen, too, seemed caught in the same current, swept up by it with desperate delight.
They met wherever and whenever they could—in the quiet hours of her kitchen when no one was home, in the musty costume closets after practice, in the loft of his father’s workshop, where the scent of sawdust clung to their skin for hours after.
Those meetings were hurried, breathless, and always left them wanting more.
They fed the fire without ever quenching it.
But here—here in the grove—time slowed. The air was warmer now, fragrant with the moss and petals of early spring.
Helen’s skin, still damp with sweat, pressed against his.
Her weight on his chest was like an anchor in choppy waters, and he didn’t want to move, didn’t want the world beyond their canopy of stars and soft smoke to return.
He lay back against the flattened pillows, one hand trailing along the nape of her neck, the other twisting strands of her flaxen hair around his fingers. Her breath warmed his skin in slow, steady waves.
Their campfire had softened to embers. From where he lay, he could barely see the flicker of flame, only the faint ribbons of smoke curling upward to gather beneath the beams of the old pergola.
A moth danced near his foot, its gossamer wings catching the moonlight like spun silver.
He flexed his toes under the quilt, gently shooing it away.
Somewhere beyond the platform, a creature rustled in the trees—drawn perhaps by the scent of their forgotten supper. The forest was alive but hushed, as if the whole world were holding its breath in reverence.
Nic closed his eyes, anchoring himself in the moment: the weight of Helen’s body, the residual heat of her skin, the fading echo of her moans still ringing in his ears. He had been with other girls before—but never like this. Never with this kind of wonder.
He dreamed of a future where their love didn’t need hiding, where they could take their time and not count it by stolen hours.
He imagined a house—not just any house, but one he would build for her.
A sunlit kitchen where she could sing while she cooked.
A greenhouse for her hyacinths. A deep porch where they could sit barefoot on summer nights, with Dolly snoring under the rocking bench.
Big windows. A fine hearth. Room for laughter, for music, for years.
Dolly let out a loud, satisfied snore from the base of the platform.
Helen stirred but didn’t lift her head. She pressed her cheek more firmly against his chest, let out a soft sigh, and whispered sleepily, “Nic?”
He hummed in response, his hand still combing lazily through her hair.
“Sing to me,” she murmured.
He opened one eye, glanced down at her nestled against him. “Now?”
“Yes.”
He gave a breathy laugh. “You know I don’t sing in front of people.”
“I’m not people,” she said, lifting her head just enough to meet his eyes. Her gaze was warm and sleepy, glowing with affection. “I’m yours.”
He hesitated. “You’re going to make fun of me.”
“I would never,” she said, pressing a kiss just below his collarbone. “I love your voice. Please?”
Nic sighed and tilted his head back, staring at the dark rafters above them. He was quiet for a long moment, fingers still moving through her hair. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough-edged, and soft with surrender. “Anything for you.”
Think of the summer nights,
Remember the bonfires beneath the moonlight.
Recall the beautiful girls dancing,
and the white smoke rising.
Feel the warm breeze as it blows,
and the cool stream as it flows.
Hear the deep drums beating,
hear the mountain calling.
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
Bathe in the ancient lake of blue.
Run through the towering woods of green.
Roll in the deep sands of white.
Frolic in the lush meadows of pink.
Eat the fruits of the earth,
and flourish in the land of our birth.
Dream beneath the sky of violet and gold,
and listen to the mountain's tales of old.
Fall in love when the leaves are changing.
Make love as the snow is falling.
Marry your sweetheart when the wildflowers are blooming,
and build a new nursery when the sun is beaming.
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
When his voice faded into the depths of the forest, Helen didn’t speak at first. She lay still against him, her breath steady, her fingers curling lightly around his. “I love that song.”
He chuckled under his breath. “Should we head back?”
“It’s too cold to move!”
“That’s because it is cold out.”
She lifted her head, and with her shifting, the cocoon of warmth broke. A gust of early spring air nipped at his bare skin.
She let out a squeal and quickly reached for her shift. “I hate how fast it happens,” she said, teeth chattering. “One moment you’re wrapped in heaven, the next you’re freezing your toes off.”
Nic helped her pull the garment over her head, laughing quietly as he rubbed warmth into her arms. “Someday soon, Biscuit, we won’t have to sneak out here like fugitives. We’ll have a bed, a hearth, a home.”
She smiled, gathering her dress and untangling the layers. “And Dolly will have her own rug.”
“Only if she learns not to steal my socks.”
Helen grinned and plucked one such sock from beneath the dog’s massive paw. “Found one.”
As she dressed, her motions slowed, and a whisper of tension began to gather in her shoulders.
She sat near the edge of the platform, combing out her hair with her fingers.
“Next week is my father’s birthday,” she said, voice careful.
“There’s a dinner planned. Big one. Extended family. Friends. Everyone will be there.”
Nic made a show of smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt, avoiding her gaze. He remembered too well the last time he’d dined with her family—the crisp linens on the table, the chandelier flickering above, the polished cutlery that felt too heavy in his hands.
It had been early in their courtship, and Helen had beamed with pride the entire evening, chattering about his building designs, his swordsmanship, his quick wit. She had meant to lift him up in front of her father—but it had only made the difference between their worlds more glaring.
Steward Jacob had regarded him coolly across the table, his expression unreadable but not unkind—worse, it was indifferent.
He had asked polite questions in a voice so formal it might as well have been addressed to a tradesman delivering timber.
Not once did he meet Nic’s eyes for long.
And when Helen gushed about Nic’s talent, the steward merely nodded, as if being “clever with his hands” were a curiosity, not a virtue.
Later, when Helen had stepped away to help her mother, Nic had found himself alone with Jacob by the hearth. The steward had studied him in silence, then gestured toward a painting above the mantle—some ancestral portrait of a long-dead lord in brocade.
“That waistcoat of yours,” Jacob said, his voice light but deliberate, “reminds me of a costume from a harvest play we once hosted. Quite spirited.”
Nic had smiled politely, not sure how to respond. But the message had been clear.
He didn’t belong there.
“I want you to come,” Helen said, her voice gentler now. “You’ll be expected, Nic.”
He didn’t answer right away. He focused on buttoning his shirt, though his hands moved slower than usual.
“You want me to sit across the table from the man who looks at me like I tracked mud into his parlor?”
Helen turned to face him fully, eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t hate you.”
“No,” Nic said. “But he doesn’t think I’m good enough for you.”
She exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated but trying not to show it. “You’re not giving him a chance to think otherwise.”
Nic slipped on his waistcoat without meeting her eyes. “I’ll be working. Long days right now. Tight schedule.”
“Nic.”
He paused, and in the stillness, the unspoken words between them swelled like a rising tide.
“If you don’t come, they’ll think you’re avoiding them,” she said. “That you’re not serious about me.”
He looked up then, the weight behind his ribs tightening. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” she said, rising to her feet, her loose curls tumbling down her back. “But it’s true. If you want a future with me, they need to see who you are.”
“I want a future with you,” he said quickly, too quickly. “But you know what your father sees when he looks at me? A boy with sawdust on his sleeves. A builder’s son who doesn’t belong at his table.”