Nodding, I head to my room to change out of my muddy clothes. Mixie pads close to my heels, her tail flicking my leg as if she approves.
The house holds a new fullness to it, no longer a place I return to alone, but a space I share.
In the bathroom, warm water runs over my wrists, washing away sawdust and sweat. The woman in the mirror stares back, silver hair mussed by the wind, cheeks flushed withsomething I refuse to name. I breathe deeply, once, twice, then change into a fresh pair of jeans, a long-sleeve shirt appropriate for working in the shop and comfortable shoes.
When I return to the dining room, Jared has set the table, with food arranged on the plates. Two glasses of water stand beside them, condensation beading on the sides, along with Jared’s orange-colored tea, and the domesticity of it makes my heart clench.
“This is nice,” I say, the words inadequate for the warmth spreading through my chest.
A flash of surprise crosses his features. “Thought it would be better than eating out of the containers.”
“No, I mean—” I gesture at the table, the food, him standing there with a dish towel in his hands. “This. It’s nice.”
A smile breaks across his face. “Yeah. It is.”
We sit opposite each other, food steaming in the center of the table. The first bite of pad Thai fills my mouth with nutty sweetness, and I savor the flavor.
When I lift my head, Jared is watching me, his expression soft. “Good?”
I lick my lips, a strand of noodle pinched in my chopsticks. “The best.”
And for this moment, with lime and chilihanging in the air, and Jared’s quiet presence, I believe it might be.
Dinner passes too fast, spiced noodles disappearing amid laughter and Mixie weaving figure-eights between our legs as if she’s claiming both of us. The easy rhythm unnerves me, and when Jared offers to clean up, I put my boots back on, grab my tool bag, and slip out the back door.
The evening enfolds me, cool after the warmth inside. Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I cross the short path to the workshop. The little cedar building sits half-hidden behind a thicket of ferns, the roof dark with rain stains, the small porch draped in wind chimes and a string of faded lanterns.
I thumb the old key from my pocket and hesitate at the door.
It’s been weeks since I stepped inside. The idea of opening it now, of sharing the space that’s always been mine, tightens a knot deep inside me. This is where I come to breathe, to sand down the stress of the day, to turn scraps into artwork.
It’s not just a shop.
It’s my sanctuary.
The hinges groan as I turn the handle.
When I flick on the switch, dust motes swirl in the lamplight. Cedar shavings and old varnish linger in the air, sweet beneath the sharper tang of metal and oil. My half-finished projects crowd every surface, birdhouses lined up on the workbench, a carved stool waiting for polish, and a pile of wood strips destined to become toy trains.
Behind me, the boards creak, and Jared lingers in the doorway, careful not to step inside without invitation. “Wow. It’s like Santa’s workshop in here.”
A flush creeps up my neck. “Yeah, a bit.”
He looks around with reverence. “It smells like you.”
I huff a laugh, but it’s shaky. “Sawdust and oil?”
“Warmth and home,” he corrects, and the simple words, the simple statement, settle under my skin.
It’s not my pheromones he equates with my scent, but the things I love and surround myself with by choice. “Come inside and close the door.”
I set down my tool bag and reach inside for the flannel-wrapped dragon, carrying it to the bench and setting it down in the halo of lamplight. The space stirs with a quiet energy, as if it’s beenwaiting for my return. And maybe it’s okay I didn’t come back alone.
I unwrap the dragon from my flannel, placing it in the center of the light. The carved cedar glows warm under the direct beam, grain lines swirling across its body.
I run my finger along the broken wing, assessing the split. “Not as bad as it looked.”
Jared leans over my shoulder, close enough for his breath to stir the fine hairs at my nape. “Are you sure he said this is a kid’s toy? It looks like a sculpture.”