They stayed there, sweaty, foreheads pressed together, hands still loosely wrapped around each other, breathing hard.
“Jesus,” Wes said finally. “That was?—”
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t know I had it in me.”
Jake smiled, soft and a little smug. “Good to know for future reference.”
The wordfuturehung between them, fragile and hopeful.
Afterward, they stood in the workshop, half-dressed and breathing hard, trying to piece themselves back together.
“That was—” Jake began.
“Yeah.”
“We should probably talk about it.”
“Probably.”
But neither moved. They just stood there, looking at each other, the air still electric between them.
Finally, Jake reached for his shirt, shook off the sawdust. “I should go.”
Something in Wes’s chest clenched. “Already?”
Jake paused, shirt halfway on. “Do you want me to stay?”
“I—” Wes thought about Henry in the house, Miguel outside with customers. “I want you to, but?—”
“It’s complicated. I know.”
Jake finished buttoning his shirt and tucked it in. All professional again, except for his sex-rouged lips and a mark Wes had unintentionally left on his neck.
“Shit,” Wes said, reaching out to touch the hickey. “I marked you.”
Jake’s hand came up, covering Wes’s. “I don’t mind.”
They stood like that for a moment, Jake’s hand over his, skin warm.
“I meant what I said,” Jake said quietly. “This matters to me. You matter to me.”
“You matter to me, too.”
“So, what do we do?”
Wes didn’t have an answer. How would they do this? Jake lived in Atlanta. Wes was tied to the farm. There were several reasons why it was impossible.
“I don’t know,” Wes admitted.
“Me neither.” Jake squeezed his hand, then let go. “But I want to figure it out… if you do.”
“I do.”
Jake smiled—so genuine, so beautiful. “I’ll call you. Tonight. After dinner. We’ll talk.”
“Okay.”
