The word slipped out before I could stop it, hanging in the air between us like a question I hadn't meant to ask. But Evan's expression went soft around the edges, something warm and pleased flickering behind his eyes.
“Among other things,” he said quietly, and then he was kissing me, soft and quick and tasting like morning coffee and relief.
We worked in comfortable silence after that, though “comfortable” was probably the wrong word for the way I kept finding excuses to brush against him, to let our hands touch when we both reached for the same tool. Evan seemed equally afflicted, his supernatural awareness meaning he was always exactly where I needed him to be, steadying me when I stumbled, catching things before I could drop them.
“Here,” he said when I struggled with a measuring tape that had apparently been designed by someone with three hands. He moved behind me, arms coming around to help guide the tape, chest warm against my back. “Like this.”
I leaned into him without thinking, and felt him pause, breath catching slightly. “Thanks,” I murmured, turning my head just enough to catch his jaw with a quick kiss.
The measuring tape forgotten, he turned me in his arms and kissed me properly, deeper this time, until we were both breathing hard and I was seriously considering the merits of lumber mill floors as makeshift beds.
“We should...” Evan started, then trailed off when I nipped at his lower lip.
“Work. Right. Working is good.” But neither of us moved for another long moment, content to stand there wrapped around each other like teenagers who'd just discovered kissing.
The pattern continued through the morning. I'd reach for something too high, and Evan would appear behind me, lifting me effortlessly so I could grab it, his hands warm on my waist. He'd lean over to check my measurements, and I'd steal a kiss when he wasn't expecting it, grinning at the way his cheeks flushed pink. When I managed to get sawdust in my hair—which happened with embarrassing frequency—his fingers would card through it gently, clearing the debris with touches that lingered longer than strictly necessary.
“You're terrible at this,” he said around noon, watching me attempt to sort boards by grade with what was clearly minimal success.
“I'm learning,” I protested, then promptly proved his point by dropping an entire armload of two-by-fours. “Okay, maybe I'm terrible at this.”
Evan laughed, the sound rich and warm in the cavernous space of the mill. “Come here,” he said, pulling me close and pressing a kiss to my temple. “I'll teach you.”
And he did, with infinite patience and hands that guided mine through the proper techniques, stealing kisses between explanations until we were both grinning like idiots and the work felt more like an elaborate excuse to touch each other.
By lunch time, we'd made serious progress on the inventory, and I was discovering muscles I'd forgotten I had. But there wassomething satisfying about the ache, about earning sweat and sawdust through honest work alongside someone who looked at me like I was worth the effort of teaching.
“Thanks,” Evan said as we cleaned up, storing tools with the kind of methodical care that spoke of years of practice. “For helping. For wanting to help.”
“Thanks for not letting me get squished by lumber.”
“Anytime.”
I wiped my hands on a rag that had seen better days, working up the courage for what I wanted to ask next. “So, would you maybe want to come by for dinner tonight? Mom's been asking when she'd get to feed you again, and I figured...” I trailed off, suddenly nervous in ways that were ridiculous given everything we'd been through. “I mean, if you want to.”
Evan's smile was soft and real and exactly the kind of thing that made my chest do stupid, complicated things. “I'd like that. What time?”
“Six? Seven? Whenever you can escape from lumber duty.”
“I'll be there.”
The promise hung between us, loaded with more weight than dinner plans should carry. Maybe it was the sawdust in the air or the way the afternoon light was hitting his face, but suddenly I was very aware of how close we were standing, how his shirt clung to his shoulders after a morning of manual labor, how his hair was messed up in ways that made my fingers itch to fix it.
“Good,” I said, voice coming out rougher than I'd intended. “That's... good.”
Evan took a step closer, close enough that I could smell pine resin and honest sweat and something indefinably wild that was purely him. “Is it?”
“Yeah,” I breathed, suddenly having trouble remembering why breathing was supposed to be an automatic function. “Mom's making her famous lasagna. You'll love it.”
“I'm sure I will.” But his eyes were focused on my mouth instead of my words, and the intensity of his attention made my knees feel unreliable.
“And Dad actually seems to like you, which is a miracle considering?—”
Evan kissed me.
It was sudden and soft and tasted like coffee and possibility, cutting off my nervous rambling with the kind of efficiency that suggested he'd been thinking about doing it for a while. I made an embarrassing sound somewhere between surprise and relief, my hands finding their way to his chest where I could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Sorry,” he murmured against my lips, not sounding sorry at all. “You were spiraling.”
