He snorted, then caught himself and put the osprey back with delicate care. He turned to face me, arms crossed again, hoodie sleeves swallowed his hands. "Thanks for letting me—" He stopped, searching for the word. "See all this."
I watched him for a beat, weighing my words. I wanted to tell him he could see it every day, for the rest of his life, if he just stayed put and let me take care of him.
I wanted to tell him I was close to losing my shit every time he touched something, that his hands had more power over me than anything else in the room.
Instead, I said, "Anytime."
He stared at me a little longer, like he was waiting for a punchline or maybe an order. I gave him neither.
Instead, I turned and started to clean up the workbench, stacking the boards, wiping down the surfaces. He joined in without being asked, picking up stray shavings and putting tools back in their slots.
We worked together in silence, the easy, unspoken kind. Every so often, our arms would brush or our hands would overlap on a tool, and he'd freeze for a half-second, then go on like nothing happened.
It was a long time before either of us said anything. When we finally finished, I switched off the lights and held the door for him as we stepped into the dusk.
He shivered at the cold.
I shrugged off the urge to pull him against my chest, instead handed him a flannel from the hook by the door. He took it, fingers brushing mine, and I let the contact linger, memorizing the feel of his skin.
He put the shirt on over the hoodie. He looked ridiculous, but also perfect.
"You want to head back?" I said.
He nodded, teeth chattering. "Yeah. Unless you have more work?"
I looked at him, then at the shop, then back. "Not today."
We walked the gravel in silence, side by side this time.
When we reached the house, I let him go in first, just to watch the way his body moved, loose now, less guarded.
I locked up behind us and turned to find him staring at me, half-smile on his face, eyes bright in the hallway light. For the first time in a long time, I couldn't wait for tomorrow.
The second we crossed the threshold, I felt it—the shift in air pressure, the charge that meant we were no longer alone.
Newt hesitated in the entryway, arms full of borrowed flannel, hair mussed by the wind and woodshop dust. I liked the look on him. It was better than the hollowed-out scarecrow from this morning, but still not the final form I wanted.
He needed another week, maybe two, to fill out, to forget what it felt like to brace for a punch every time someone said his name.
I closed the door and turned to find Ma standing at the far end of the hall, arms crossed, gaze like a hawk’s. She wore a faded house dress, the kind with buttons up the front and pockets big enough to hold a whole chicken. Her white hair was up in a bun, not a strand out of place. If she’d been born a hundred years earlier, she’d have run this town with an iron fist and a shotgun.
She gave Newt the kind of look that could strip paint from a barn, then transferred her focus to me. “What is he doing here?” she asked, voice sharp enough to cut timber.
I didn’t let Newt answer. He started to, but I raised a hand and shut it down. “He’s staying,” I said. My tone was flat, final. No room for argument.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re bringing a Bridger into this house?”
I let the silence build, made sure she felt the full weight of it.
“I’m keeping him,” I said. The words hung there. For a second, even I wasn’t sure what I meant, but the effect was immediate.
Ma’s jaw tensed. She looked from me to Newt and back, weighing something, then gave the tiniest nod. “Your father won’t like it.”
“My house,” I said. “My rules.”
Another pause, a battle of wills that played out in two square feet of linoleum and forty years of family history.
Finally, she nodded again, a little deeper, and turned on her heel. “If he’s here, he pulls his weight. That’s all.”
