I turned to the table saw, made a show of checking the blade, even though it was sharp enough to split a hair. I needed something to do with my hands, or I'd use them for the wrong thing.
"You ever work with wood?" I asked, voice a little rough.
He nodded, eyes still on the tools. "Shop class, mostly. I built a jewelry box for my mom once. She never used it, but I liked the smell. It's—"
He paused, inhaled deep.
"It's good in here," he finished, voice softer now.
"Better than bleach and ammonia," I said.
He laughed, and I filed it away. It sounded less fragile here.
He moved to the central island, where I'd laid out a series of maple slats for a commission. He ran a finger down the grain of the longest board, then stopped at the router I'd left plugged in. He touched the power switch, then drew his hand back, almost guilty.
"You want to try?" I said. "It's easy."
He looked at me, surprise open on his face.
"I don't want to mess anything up," he said.
"You won't," I said. I moved closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin, and plugged the router in with a click. "Just follow the line."
He hovered his hands over the handles, uncertain.
I reached past him, wrapped his fingers around the left grip, mine over his, and guided the other hand to the right. He stiffened, but didn't pull away.
I said, "You don't have to be gentle. Machines respect force."
I pressed down, guiding the router along the length of the board, our hands moving as one. The motor screamed to life, shavings peeling away in fragrant curls. He flinched at the noise, but then grinned, a real grin this time, as the router bit sank into the wood and left a perfect bead along the edge.
"That's it," I said, low. "Steady pressure."
He kept at it, arms straining, jaw set, and I let my grip linger just a second too long before letting go.
When the pass was finished, he lifted the router and looked at the clean, pale line he'd made. "Nice," he said, almost surprised.
I nodded, watching the way his hands trembled from the vibration.
"You're a natural," I said.
He wiped his palms on his borrowed sweats, then tried to hide the blush that had crept up his neck.
"You do this every day?" he asked.
"Most days," I said. "Keeps me busy."
He wandered the shop for a while, poking at things, running his hands over the surfaces with a kind of quiet hunger. I found myself tracking him through the dust, the way a predator might track wounded prey, except the urge wasn't to kill—it was to own, to claim.
He stopped at a shelf of half-finished projects—a set of chess pieces, each one carved to resemble a different breed of farm animal; a hand-turned bowl with turquoise inlay; a small sculpture of an osprey, wings half spread, talons extended. He picked it up, thumb caressing the edge of the beak.
"This is amazing," he said.
I shrugged. "Just something to keep my hands from getting idle."
He glanced at me, head tilted. "You ever sell any of it?"
"Sometimes," I said. "Mostly to people from out of town or the older crowd. The locals prefer Walmart in the next town over."
