I looked at the workshop around us—tools my father taught me to use, projects I'd chosen to take on, and sawdust coating everything in a fine layer. "Last night I invited you to my apartment. Safe. Clean. The version of my life I don't mind people seeing."
"And this?"
"This is real. Messy. Mine." I met his eyes. "I wanted you to see it. Wanted you here."
He kissed me again, soft and lingering.
When we broke apart, he was smiling. "Your real is pretty great."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He glanced at the cabinet, then back at me. "Want help? I'm shit at woodworking, but I can hand you tools and look pretty."
I laughed—couldn't help it. "You're offering to be my workshop assistant?"
"I'm offering to spend more time watching you work with your hands while pretending to be useful. There's a difference."
"That's the worst job description I've ever heard."
"But you're considering it."
I was. With him standing there in my workshop with sawdust in his beard and kiss-bruised lips, I absolutely was.
"Fine. But if you break something expensive, you're buying me dinner."
"Deal." He grinned, reaching for the plane. "Now show me how this thing works before I accidentally shave off something important."
I spent the next hour teaching Hog how to plane wood.
"Okay, hands here." I positioned his grip on the handle, his right hand at the rear, left guiding the front. His hands dwarfed mine—knuckles scarred, calluses in different places than a carpenter's. "Feel the weight of it?"
"Yeah."
"Now—" I stepped behind him, bracketing his body with mine, my hands over his. "You're not trying to muscle it. Just steady pressure, let the blade do the work."
He tensed, every muscle in his back rigid against my chest.
"Relax," I said, low enough that my breath ruffled his hair. "I've got you."
He exhaled, shoulders dropping, and I guided his hands forward. The plane glided over the wood, causing a perfect curl to peel away.
"Holy shit. Did I do that?"
"You did that." I stepped back, giving him room. "Try it again. Same angle."
He did—too much pressure at first, the blade catching and stuttering. On the third stroke, he found the rhythm—the give and take between man and material. His whole body settled into it, with that same focused intensity he brought to his knitting.
"There you go." I watched his hands—careful despite their size, learning through touch instead of instruction. It was how he'd taught those kids to cast on, feeling their mistakes before correcting them. "You're a natural."
"Liar." He was grinning, already lining up another stroke.
Outside, Thunder Bay went about its business. Inside, surrounded by sawdust and the smell of fresh-cut pine, I chose visibility. Chose messy. Chose him.
My father's voice echoed:You can't force wood into shapes it wasn't meant to hold.
For the first time, I understood—it wasn't only about carpentry.
Hog made another pass with the plane, the curl peeling away clean. He looked over his shoulder at me, grinning, sawdust in his beard and wood shavings caught in his hoodie.
