He didn’t bring people here—not customers, not even Henry much anymore since the stroke made navigating the uneven ground treacherous. It was where he went when the weight of everything got too heavy, when his hands needed to create something instead of just maintain, when he needed to remember that he was more than a struggling farmer drowning in debt.
But something about Jake made him want to share it.
He unlocked the door—habit more than necessity out here—and gestured Jake inside.
“This is where the magic happens,” Wes said, then immediately felt stupid.
Magic. Jesus.
But Jake didn’t laugh. He stepped inside slowly, looking around with genuine interest—at the workbenches scarred with decades of use, the tools hung on pegboard with obsessive precision, the half-finished carvings lined up like sentries alongthe back wall. Santa figures and reindeer, bears and eagles, abstract shapes that were more feeling than form.
“Wow,” Jake said softly, his voice almost reverent.
He crossed to a carved Santa, nearly three feet tall, standing proud in the corner. He picked it up carefully, his hands cradling it like something precious. His fingers traced the detail—the beard carved in individual flowing strands, the wrinkles around the eyes that suggested a lifetime of joy, the tiny buttons on the coat that Wes had spent an hour getting just right.
“You made this?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s incredible.” Jake looked up, his eyes bright with genuine surprise. “Wes, you’re an artist.”
Wes shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise, with being seen. “Just something I do.”
“No.” Jake set the Santa down carefully, moved closer, closing the distance between them. “This isn’t just something you do. This is... this is real talent. Have you ever shown these? Sold them?”
“Sometimes. Church craft fair, online a little. But it’s not—it’s not a business.”
“It could be.”
They were standing close now. Close enough that Wes could smell Jake’s cologne more clearly—cedarwood, definitely, with something underneath that was just Jake. Something warm and clean that seemed absurdly foreign in a workshop full of sawdust and pine resin.
“I gave up an art scholarship to run this place,” Wes heard himself say, not sure why he was admitting it. Not sure why this felt like a safe space to voice the regret he usually kept locked down tight. “School of Visual Arts in New York. Full ride. Seemed stupid at the time to turn it down. Still does, most days.”
Jake’s expression softened with understanding. “It’s not stupid. You preserved your family’s legacy. That matters.”
“Yeah, well. Legacy doesn’t pay the bills.”
“No. But this—” Jake gestured at the carvings, at the workshop, at Wes himself. “—this is why it’ll work. You’re not just a tree farmer going through the motions. You’re creative. Resourceful. You find ways to make beauty even when everything’s hard. That’s not nothing, Wes.”
Wes’s throat went tight with an emotion he couldn’t name.
No one had said anything like that to him in... well, he couldn’t remember when. Henry was practical, focused on keeping the operation running. Miguel was supportive but kept things surface-level. And Wes sure as hell didn’t talk about his feelings with customers who just wanted their perfect Christmas tree.
Jake was still looking at him with those impossibly blue eyes, standing too close, close enough that Wes could see the hazel flecks near his pupils, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw that suggested he’d shaved this morning but it was already fighting back. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something else, something important.
Don’t.
But Wes wanted to. God, he wanted to close the space between them, find out if Jake tasted as good as he looked, if those confident hands felt as sure on skin as they did on keyboards. Wanted to know if this chemistry crackling between them was real or just loneliness and proximity and the desperation of a man who hadn’t been touched with desire in longer than he wanted to admit.
Jake’s gaze dropped to Wes’s mouth, lingered there for a heartbeat that stretched into eternity.
He lifted his hand slowly, giving Wes time to pull away, time to stop this before it started. When Wes didn’t move,Jake’s fingers found Wes’s jaw, gentle against the soft beard. His thumb brushed Wes’s cheekbone with devastating tenderness.
“Wes—” Jake’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper.
The ping of Henry’s medication app shattered the moment like glass.
MEDICATION REMINDER: 2:00 PM - BLOOD PRESSURE
