Chapter Seven
The crowd thinned out slow, the way it always does after the last shell burns out and everyone remembers they still have to drive home.
Trucks pulled out of the gravel lot one by one, headlights swinging across the tree line, coolers dragged back into truck beds with a scrape of metal on metal.
By the time the last one rolled out, the workshop lot was empty except for scattered lawn chairs nobody had bothered folding and a haze of gunpowder smoke still hanging low over the water.
Hayes killed the string lights with a flip of a switch by the door, plunging the yard into the quiet starlight.
Neither of them said much on the walk to the stairs.
Avery went up first, his ankles aching from the stiff dress shoes, his chest still holding a residual, hollow tightness from the panic attack behind the tool shed.
The steps didn't feel as steep as they had the first night, but his limbs felt heavy, drained by the sheer exhaustion of holding himself together for so long.
Inside, the loft held onto the day's heat, but the stillness was different now. It didn't feel like a trap anymore; it felt like a boundary drawn against the rest of the world.
Hayes didn't immediately launch into his usual routine. He walked over to the small sink, turned the tap, and let the old pipes rumble for a long moment until the water ran cold. He filled a glass, walked over, and set it down on the laminate table right in front of Avery.
"Drink," Hayes said softly. "Your throat sounds dry."
Avery hadn't realized it until then, but his throat was parched, tight from hyperventilating in the woods. He picked up the glass, his fingers still holding a faint, barely visible tremor, and drank the whole thing. The cold water unknotted something deep in his throat.
"Thanks," Avery murmured. He looked down at his stiff, structured city clothes, suddenly feeling suffocated by them all over again. "I need to get out of these."
"Sweatpants are in the drawer," Hayes said, nodding toward the dresser. "Take your time."
Avery went into the small bathroom, closed the door, and took a slow, deep breath.
Stripping off the tailored shirt and the slacks felt like peeling off a costume he’d been forced to wear for years.
He pulled the borrowed gray t-shirt over his head, swallowing himself in the scent of cedar and clean soap, and rolled the waistband of the oversized sweatpants over his hips.
When he stepped back out into the main room, he felt grounded again. Smaller, but real.
Hayes was leaning against the kitchenette counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d taken off his heavy work boots, standing barefoot on the hardwood floor. The silence between them stretched, thick and unhurried, filling the room like the humid summer air.
Avery stood near the foot of the double bed, looking at the hand-stitched quilt. The invisible line down the center was gone. Nobody had erased it, but it had simply ceased to exist somewhere between the dock and the pines.
"You okay?" Hayes asked, his eyes steady on Avery's face. "Truly."
"Better," Avery said, his voice quiet. He looked across the small space at Hayes, noting the broad line of his shoulders, the unmoving dependability of his presence. "It's terrifying, actually. Being here. Not the storm, or the car, or my family. Just... this."
He swallowed, forcing himself to look Hayes straight in the eye.
"You don't want anything from me, Hayes.
You haven't asked me for one single thing since I got here that wasn't about holding a wrench or a flashlight.
I don't know what to do with that. Everyone in my life wants a version of me that performs. A version that checks boxes.
And you just... look at me, and you don't demand a thing. "
Hayes’s jaw tightened. He didn't look away.
Instead, his eyes darkened, a shadow of something raw moving behind them that he usually kept buried under miles of small-town pragmatism.
He turned his head slightly, looking out the open window at the empty gravel lot, his calloused fingers gripping the edge of the laminate counter until his knuckles went pale.
"Roads open tomorrow," Hayes said, his voice lower than usual, rough around the edges. "Crew's clearing the mudslide by morning. Your sedan will be ready for a tow. You'll be able to get out."
"I know," Avery said, a small, cold weight settling under his ribs.
"I don't want you to."
The admission came out flat and fast, like Hayes had been holding it behind his teeth until it forced its way through.
He straightened up from the counter, taking a slow step toward Avery, his chest rising and falling heavily.
"Been telling myself the last few days were just a fluke.
That you're just a city guy stuck in a storm, and the second the sun came out, you'd be looking for the highway.
" He shook his head, a sharp, tight gesture.
"But it doesn't feel like that. I’ve spent four days watching you.
Learning how you move around this room. And I don't want to watch you drive away tomorrow. "
Avery felt his pulse jump, not with panic, but with a sudden, breathless warmth that flooded all the way to his fingertips. "Then don't let me leave like nothing happened."
"Avery," Hayes whispered, the use of his actual name instead of a surname heavy with gravity. "If I cross this room right now, I'm not drawing another line."
"Good," Avery said, his voice entirely steady. "Because I'm tired of lines."
Hayes crossed the remaining distance between them in two long strides.
There was no boat frame at Avery's back this time, no narrow walkway to blame, nothing standing in for what they wanted. Hayes reached out, his large, calloused hand sliding up Avery’s neck, his thumb resting flat against the jawline he’d been watching for days.
The heat of his palm was immediate, a solid, grounding weight.
He leaned down and kissed him.
It wasn't a tentative text or a polite greeting; it was four days of extreme restraint finally snapping all at once. Avery’s hands found the front of Hayes's shirt, his fingers bunching into the worn fabric, pulling Hayes closer until their chests met flush.
Hayes made a low, rough sound against Avery's mouth, his other arm coming around Avery’s waist to anchor him, lifting him slightly off his feet until Avery was pressed fully against the solid weight of him.
The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, a thorough exploration that didn't leave any room for doubt.
Hayes tasted like the clean, sharp lake water and the warm summer night.
His thumb stroked the soft skin behind Avery's ear, a gentle, protective motion that contrasted entirely with the fierce grip around his waist.
When Hayes finally pulled back a fraction of an inch, his forehead rested against Avery’s, both of them breathing hard, their breaths mingling in the small space between their faces.
"You're too loud in your own head," Hayes murmured, his dark eyes locked onto Avery's, searching them in the dim light. "Stop thinking. Just feel this."
"I am," Avery breathed, his fingers sliding up into the damp hair at the back of Hayes's neck. "I'm right here."
Hayes shifted, his hands sliding down to Avery's hips, guiding him back until the edge of the mattress hit the back of Avery’s knees. They went down together onto the hand-stitched quilt, the old springs giving a familiar, low creak that neither of them cared about anymore.
The un-air-conditioned room was warm, their skin slick where it met, but the heat didn't feel heavy anymore.
It felt like something they were sharing, a deliberate closeness that blurred the edges of the room until there was nothing left but the texture of the mattress beneath them and the man above him.
Hayes was patient, far more patient than Avery had expected for a man who had been holding back for days.
He took his time, his large hands mapping the lines of Avery’s ribs under the oversized t-shirt, his calloused palms dragging slow against Avery's skin with a friction that made Avery catch his breath.
Every touch felt like an observation Hayes had made over the kitchen table or on the wooden dock, finally given a physical form.
"Hayes," Avery whispered, his eyes closing as Hayes's mouth moved along his jawline, down to the sensitive hollow above his collarbone.
"I’ve got you," Hayes muttered against his skin, his voice rough, a gravelly promise in the dark. "Nothing's chasing you here. No timelines. Just me."
Avery opened his eyes, looking up into the unshielded, open face of the man hovering over him.
The blunt, stony guard Hayes wore all day was completely gone, replaced by a fierce, steady tenderness that made Avery’s throat go tight with something that felt remarkably like relief.
Avery reached up, his palms framing Hayes’s face, his fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the small white scar across his knuckles.
"I don't want to be anywhere else," Avery said, and it was the truest thing he’d ever spoken out loud.
Hayes didn't answer with words. He leaned down and kissed him again, a deep, slow surrender that collapsed the remaining distance between them entirely.
They gave into the quiet rhythm of the night, hands finding hands, breathing matching breathing, until the hours ran smooth and the room held nothing but the quiet, sweet warmth of two people who had finally stopped trying to stay on opposite sides of the bed.
Afterward, the room had cooled slightly as the deep morning air began to stir outside the cracked window.
Avery lay with his head on Hayes's chest, his cheek pressed against the steady, slow thud of Hayes's heartbeat. One of Hayes’s heavy legs was hooked over his, pinning him down in a way that didn't feel restrictive at all—it felt like an anchor. Hayes’s large hand was moving in slow, rhythmic circles against the small of Avery's back, his fingers tracing the line of his spine.
"The road'll be clear by eight," Hayes said into the dark, his voice thick with sleep.
Avery smiled against his skin, his eyes already heavy. "I'll call a tow for the car. But I'm staying through the weekend."
Hayes’s hand stopped its movement for a second, his fingers pressing slightly firmer against Avery's back, pulling him a fraction of an inch closer. "Good," he muttered, his breath warm against Avery’s hair. "Kitchen table's too big for one person anyway."
Avery closed his eyes, listening to the drip of the water off the eaves outside, and fell asleep dead center in the middle of the bed.