The words settle into me, warm and heavy. Ben fixes things. Milo pays attention. Elijah builds.
“Ben told you about me,” I say quietly. “The foster care stuff.”
“Some of it.” He doesn’t pretend otherwise. “He wanted us to understand. Why you keep people at arm’s length. Why you plan for everything.” His eyes hold mine, steady and patient. “He didn’t tell us to gossip. He told us so we wouldn’t push too hard. So we’d know to be patient.”
My throat tightens. I’m not sure if I’m touched or annoyed that they’ve been discussing me like some kind of group project. Both, maybe.
“Is that why you organize everything?” he asks. “The lists. The backup plans. The color-coded schedules.”
My hand tightens on my wine glass. “You noticed that?”
“I notice everything about you.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “I always have.”
“It’s a control thing,” I admit. “When everything else is chaos, at least I can control my spreadsheets.”
“That makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“I do the same thing.” He sets down his wine, and there’s something raw in his expression now. Something I’ve never seen from quiet, careful Elijah. “When my mom died, I was fourteen. My dad had already left years before—just gone one day, never looked back. And I didn’t know how to handle any of it. The grief. The fear. The feeling like the ground had disappeared under my feet.”
I wait, barely breathing.
“So I built things.” He gestures at the workshop around us—the tools on the walls, the half-finished projects on benches, the life he’s created with his hands. “Started spending all my time in my grandfather’s shop. Learning to carve, to measure, to make something out of nothing. When I’m working with wood, everything makes sense. I can’t control death or loss or people leaving. But I can control this.”
“You build to feel safe,” I say softly. “I organize for the same reason.”
“I know.” His eyes hold mine, warm and steady. “I recognized it in you the first time you walked into my shop with that clipboard. The way you held it like a shield. Like if you just planned well enough, nothing could hurt you.”
My throat tightens. No one has ever—no one has ever justseenit like that. Understood without me having to explain.
“Is that why you wanted to teach me to carve?” I ask.
“Partly.” He stands, coming around the table to offer me his hand. His palm is warm and callused—woodworker’s hands, capable and strong. “But mostly I want to share this with you. The thing that makes me feel whole. I want you to know this part of me.”
I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet.
He leads me to a workbench at the back of the shop, where a small block of wood is waiting. Maple, I think—light colored with subtle grain patterns that shimmer in the candlelight. A set of carving tools is laid out beside it. Gouges and chisels of various sizes, arranged with the kind of precision I recognize.
“I thought we’d start simple,” he says. “A small bowl. Something you can use.”
“I’ve never carved anything in my life. Unless you count that failed attempt at a soap sculpture in third grade.”
“Soap’s harder than wood.” His mouth twitches. “What was it supposed to be?”
“A duck. It looked like a tumor with a beak.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh—rusty, like he doesn’t use it often. “We’ll aim higher than tumor duck.”
He positions me in front of the workbench, and then he’s behind me. Not crowding, but close. Present. His warmth bleeds through my sweater, and his scent wraps around me until it’s all I can breathe—cedarwood and honey and something deeper underneath. Something that makes my omega instincts purr with satisfaction.
Alpha. Safe.His.
His hands cover mine as he guides my fingers to one of the carving tools.
“Thumb here,” he murmurs, his voice low and close to my ear. “Index finger there. That gives you control.”
I try to focus on the knife in my hands, but every nerve in my body is focused on him. The solid width of his chest against my back. The way his breath stirs my hair. The gentle strength of his hands as they position mine.
