Chapter 4 Secrets After Sunset #2
Eli looked genuinely interested.
Not judgmental.
Not amused.
Interested.
That somehow made answering harder.
"What kind?"
Mason hesitated.
Then he reluctantly turned the cover toward him.
Recognition immediately brightened Eli's face.
"You like Whitman?"
Mason raised an eyebrow.
"You know Whitman?"
Eli laughed softly.
"I was a literature major before I started this project. Of course I know Whitman."
The reminder shouldn't have surprised him.
Yet somehow it did.
For a second, Mason forgot Eli was a college student.
Forgot he spent most of his life surrounded by books.
Forgot they came from completely different worlds.
Eli carefully approached the table.
"You've read this more than once."
Mason glanced at the worn spine.
"A few times."
"A few?"
"Maybe a hundred."
The younger man's eyes widened.
"Seriously?"
Mason shrugged.
The reaction made him uncomfortable.
Like he'd admitted something embarrassing.
Which, judging by his own standards, he probably had.
Most of the people in Blackthorn would never guess he spent evenings reading poetry.
Most would probably laugh.
Not because they were cruel.
Because it didn't fit.
Mason understood that.
Sometimes it didn't fit in his own head either.
Eli studied him for another second.
Then something softened in his expression.
"You really love it."
The statement wasn't a question.
And somehow that made it harder to dismiss.
Mason leaned back in his chair.
For several moments, he considered avoiding the conversation entirely.
Changing the subject.
Walking away.
Any of the usual strategies.
Instead, he surprised himself.
"It helped."
Eli tilted his head.
"Helped with what?"
Mason stared at the book.
Memories surfaced immediately.
Memories he usually kept buried.
Small apartments.
Temporary homes.
Long nights spent wondering where he would end up next.
The loneliness of being a foster kid who never stayed anywhere long enough to belong.
Back then, books had been easier than people.
Safer.
"They were always there."
The words came quietly.
Eli didn't interrupt.
Didn't rush him.
Just listened.
Mason appreciated that.
"When I was younger, I moved around a lot."
A massive understatement.
"There weren't many things that stayed the same."
His thumb brushed the edge of the cover.
"But books did."
The younger man's expression softened further.
"Poetry specifically?"
Mason nodded.
"Didn't make much sense at first."
A small smile tugged at his mouth.
"Still doesn't sometimes."
That earned a laugh.
A genuine one.
The sound warmed something deep inside him.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
"But eventually?" Eli asked.
Mason considered the question.
"Eventually I realized it wasn't about understanding every word."
"What was it about?"
The answer came easier than expected.
"Feeling less alone."
Silence settled between them.
Not uncomfortable silence.
The kind that came when something honest had been said.
The kind Mason rarely allowed.
Eli looked down at the table for a moment.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"I know that feeling."
Something about the admission caught Mason's attention immediately.
He studied the younger man.
For the first time, he noticed a familiar sadness hiding beneath the optimism.
A loneliness he hadn't expected.
The realization surprised him.
Eli always seemed so bright.
So open.
So confident.
Yet maybe that wasn't the whole story.
"Do you?"
The younger man nodded.
"My grandfather always wanted me to become someone else."
Mason remained silent.
Eli continued.
"I spent years trying to be the version of me that made everyone happy."
A humorless smile appeared.
"Turns out that's exhausting."
Mason understood that better than he wanted to admit.
Trying to become someone else rarely ended well.
He knew from experience.
The room grew quiet again.
Outside, the last light of sunset faded behind the kilns.
Shadows stretched across the floor.
Neither seemed in a hurry to leave.
Eventually Eli reached into his bag.
"I write too."
Mason frowned.
"You write poetry?"
The younger man's cheeks turned slightly pink.
"Sometimes."
The reaction alone told Mason how important the admission was.
Eli pulled a small notebook from his backpack.
The pages looked worn from use.
Not unlike Mason's poetry book.
For a second, the younger man hesitated.
Then he opened it.
"I usually don't show people."
Mason immediately understood.
Sharing writing felt personal.
Maybe even vulnerable.
Like handing someone a piece of yourself and hoping they wouldn't break it.
"You don't have to."
"I know."
Eli smiled faintly.
"But I want to."
The simple honesty caught Mason off guard.
The younger man flipped through several pages before stopping.
Then he began reading.
The poem wasn't complicated.
It wasn't filled with fancy language or academic cleverness.
It was about belonging.
About searching for a place that felt like home.
About wanting someone to truly see you.
The simplicity made it powerful.
And by the time Eli finished, the room felt different somehow.
Smaller.
Closer.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Mason found himself staring at the notebook.
Then at Eli.
Then back again.
"That was good."
The compliment felt inadequate.
But it was honest.
Eli's smile widened.
This time it reached his eyes.
Warm.
Genuine.
Beautiful.
The realization struck Mason before he could stop it.
Beautiful.
His stomach tightened immediately.
Danger.
Dangerous thought.
Dangerous direction.
Yet he couldn't deny what he felt.
Not anymore.
For the first time since Eli Bennett arrived in Blackthorn, the attraction wasn't the thing unsettling him most.
It was the connection.
The growing realization that he genuinely liked talking to the younger man.
That he looked forward to these conversations.
That somewhere between the heat, the dust, and the long days at the brickworks, Eli had started becoming important.
And that was far more dangerous than attraction could ever be.
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