“Here I am,” he agrees, finishing his line. “What next?”
“Now we cut.” I guide him to the miter saw, give him a pair of goggles, and explain each safety feature before I place his hands in the correct positions. “Keep your fingers here, and never, ever rush a cut.”
His body tenses as the saw whirs to life, but he follows my instructions, and the sweet, resinous scent of cut pine fills the air as sawdust sprinkles the front of his shirt.
“Perfect cut,” I say when he turns off the saw.
The praise brings a flush to his cheeks. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Careful attention to detail,” I correct him. “There’s a difference.”
We fall into a rhythm as the morning progresses. I demonstrate a technique, then step back while he tries. When his measurement is off by a quarter inch, or he sands the soft wood too aggressively, he laughs at himself before I can offer reassurance.
“I took the finish off my coffee table trying to polish it once,” he admits as he practices with the sandpaper, moving with the grain as I showed him. “The online tutorial made it look so simple.”
“That’s how I learned to weld,” I say, leaning on the adjacent workbench. “YouTube and stubborn determination.”
His eyebrows lift. “You weld, too?”
“My dad taught me the basics. Said everyone should be able to fix their own car, regardless of gender.”
“He sounds progressive.”
“Not particularly. He wanted to ensure I wouldn’t get cheated by mechanics. By the time I was in middle school, I could do all the maintenance on his truck.” The memory pulls a smile from me. “He also taught me to crochet.”
Leif’s hands still on the wood. “You crochet?”
“You sound shocked.”
“Not shocked.” He resumes sanding, more confident with each stroke. “Intrigued.”
As we work, Leif’s rigid posture eases. His breaths slow and deepen, his movements smoothing out as the minutes pass. Measure. Cut. Sand. The steady repetition relaxes his shoulders until the tension drains out of him with each pass.
“Why teaching?” I ask as we clamp the shelf pieces together to prepare for drilling.
Leif steadies the wood while I mark the drill points. “I had this English teacher in eighth grade. Mr. Benson. First male Omega I’d ever met in a position of authority. He treated us as if our thoughts mattered, even when we were being ridiculous teenagers.”
The memory brings a smile to his lips. “I wanted to be that for someone else.”
“Sounds like you are.” I hand him the drill. “For Quinn.”
“Quinn makes it easy. She’s like a sponge, curious about everything. What about you?” Leif positions the drill where I’ve marked. “What drew you to construction?”
“Permanence.” The answer comes without thought. “When the world gets loud or confusing, I drive past buildings I helped raise. They’re still standing, unmoved even if everything else has changed.”
Leif exhales slowly, giving me the feeling that he needs a sense of stability every bit as much as I do.
“Plus,” I add, “if there’s ever a zombie apocalypse, I’ll have a valued skill.”
A startled laugh escapes him. “Is this a serious concern?”
“Well, not the zombie part, but life has a way of surprising you.” I step closer to adjust his grip. “Hold the drill straight and apply steady pressure. Let the tool do the work.”
He follows my direction, and the drill bit sinks into the pine with a satisfying whir. Hot wood shavings spiral upward, and concentration tightens his brow, his lips parting as he focuses.
“See?” I step back as he completes the hole. “You’re a natural.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he protests, but pride flickers across his face. “But I actually feel like I’m not a complete disaster at this.”