I set the piece down. “Blake’s a good carver.”
My hands move with the rhythm of routine, gathering wood glue, fine-grit sandpaper, small clamps, a damp rag, and a toothpick for application. Each item rests on the table in the order I’ll need it, a methodical arrangement born from years of practice.
Jared pulls out the chair across from me and sits, elbows on the worktable, watching. In the harsh light, shadows carve hollows beneath his cheekbones, but his eyes reflect the lamp’s glow.
I take a square of sandpaper and begin to smooth the broken edges, the light strokes releasing the scent of cedar into the air. Dust gathers on my fingertips, fine as powder.
“The break needs to be rough enough for the glue to bond,” I explain, working the sandpaper in small circles. “But not so rough it won’t fit together cleanly.”
Jared’s attention rests on my hands, his focus complete, and my skin prickles.
“Want to learn?” The question slips out before I consider what I’m offering. Not just knowledge, but proximity.
His smile blooms, lighting him up from within. “Yeah.”
I push the dragon toward him. “Hold it like this, with the wing face up.” I position his fingers to support the body without touching the break. “You want pressure evenly distributed so nothing warps while we work.”
His palms dwarf the dragon, but he adjusts his grip with surprising delicacy. “Is this right?”
“Yeah.” I uncap the glue. “Perfect. Now hold still.”
I wipe the dust off my hands with a clean rag, then reach for the glue bottle. It clicks open, and I squeeze a thin bead along the break, using the toothpick to spread it.
“Now, the wing.” I lift it, aligning the grain patterns. “You have to press firmly, but not so hard you squeeze all the glue out.”
His other hand rises to help, steadying the wing as I set it in place. Our fingers touch again, longer this time, his skin warm on mine. A current runs up my arm, but I keep my focus on the task.
“Now we clamp it.” I reach for the smallest clamp, its metal jaws padded with rubber. “This part’s tricky. Too tight, and you’ll crush the wood. Too loose, and the bond won’t hold.”
I start to position the clamp, but pause. “Here, you do it.”
Our hands trade places, his wrapping around the clamp while mine supports the dragon. His movements mirror my earlier demonstration, gentle but assured.
“Tighten it until you feel resistance,” I instruct. “Then, a quarter turn more.”
The clamp creaks as he adjusts it, the padded teeth finding purchase on the wood. A tiny bead of glue squeezes out along the seam.
“Perfect.” I hand him the damp rag. “Now dab away the excess before it dries. Otherwise, it’ll show in the finished piece.”
He wipes carefully, his large hands somehow graceful with the delicate task.
“You’re good at this,” I say, my focus caught on the sure, careful way he moves.
Jared’s fingers still on the dragon. “I have a good teacher.”
The compliment warms me, loosening a knot between my shoulder blades I didn’t realize I carried. I bring out a second clamp to secure the other side of the wing, and our fingers collide. Neither of us pulls away. His skin glides over mine, calluses brushing calluses, rough meeting rough.
Time stretches, the silence filled with the hum of the lamp and the growing wind outside, rattling the windows. But inside the ring of lamplight, the world narrows to just us.
“I never thanked you properly,” Jared says, “for letting me stay.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do, though.” His fingers brush mine again, deliberate this time. “You’re amazing, you know that? You keep everyone together, even when it’s breaking you down.”
My throat tightens. “I’m just doing what needs doing.”
“No.” He sets the dragon on the table and leaves his chair to come around to my side. “It’s more than that. It’s who you are.”