He’s quiet for a moment, that careful consideration I’m learning to recognize. When he speaks, his voice is lower than usual. More vulnerable.
“Ben’s easier. Funny. Makes you laugh even when you want to strangle him. Milo’s smooth. Knows exactly what to say to make you blush.” He shrugs, a small movement. “I’m just... me. Quiet. Bad at words.”
Oh.
Oh, this man.
“Elijah.” I step closer, drawn to him despite myself. “You built a nesting bench that made me forget how to breathe. You carved thirty-six heart vases by hand?—”
“Curly maple,” he interrupts, and there it is—that spark in his eyes when he talks about his craft. “The figuring in the grain. It catches the light like?—”
“Like water,” I finish, remembering. “Like sunlight on water. You told me.”
He goes still. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything you’ve told me. It’s not a lot, but...” I stop a foot away from him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough that his scent is filling my lungs with every breath. “I’ve been paying attention, even when you thought I wasn’t.”
His throat works as he swallows. “Tessa?—”
“You walked through a blizzard to rescue me. You said you’d wait, and you meant it.” I reach up—slowly, giving him time to pull away—and rest my palm against his chest. His heart is pounding. Fast and hard, just like mine. “You’re notjustanything.”
He stares down at me for a long moment, candlelight flickering across his face. Then he reaches up and covers my hand with his, pressing it harder against his chest.
“Sit,” he says, his voice rough. “I made you dinner. Let me feed you before I do something stupid like kiss you before we’ve even had bread.”
A surprised laugh escapes me. “That would be tragic.”
“I made the bread this morning. It’s a good bread. It deserves to be eaten first.”
“Then by all means.” I let him lead me to the table. “Feed me your bread.”
His ears go pink at that, and I file it away as useful information. Quiet, stoic Elijah Smith blushes when I flirt with him. Good to know.
The meal is incredible.
Roasted chicken with herbs that fill the workshop with a homey aroma. Vegetables glazed with honey. And the bread. God, the bread. Still warm, with a crust that crackles when I tear into it and a soft, pillowy interior.
“You made this?” I’m already reaching for another piece. “This morning?”
“Before work.” He pours wine for both of us, a deep red that catches the candlelight. “Bread needs time to rise. Gives me something to do with my hands while I wait.”
“While you wait for what?”
He meets my eyes across the table. “Tonight.”
The simple honesty of it floors me. No games, no smooth lines. Justtonight. Like he’s been counting the hours since he sent that text. Like having me here, in his space, is something he’s been anticipating all day.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask, because I need to say something and my brain is short-circuiting under the weight of his attention.
“My mom.” His voice warms. “She taught me and Levi both, back when we were kids. Said no one should go through life not knowing how to feed themselves properly. Or the people they love.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was.” There’s a softness there, an old grief worn smooth. “She and my aunt raised us together after my dad left. Levi’s more brother than cousin at this point. We learned everything from them—cooking, reading, how to take care of people.”
I set down my fork, something clicking into place. “Is that why you do it? The acts of service thing? Building the stage, making the vases, all of it?”
“Partly.” He meets my eyes. “It’s how I was taught to show love. Through my hands. Through the work.”
