"You finish the stuff in the shop yesterday?" I said.
He nodded. "Even sorted your screws by size. You're welcome."
I grunted, but inside I was impressed. Nobody had ever managed that before.
Breakfast was a goddamn circus. Harlow cooked enough eggs to feed a platoon, and Ransom spent the entire meal making faces at Newt, who responded by stealing bacon off Ransom's plate one strip at a time.
Ma took it all in from the head of the table, eyebrows raised every time my gaze lingered on Newt for more than a second.
It lingered a lot.
He was different now. The last of the damage had healed, and he didn't flinch when people called his name or reached for his arm. Sometimes he even talked back.
I should've been happy. Instead, I was ready to crawl out of my skin.
At one point, he licked a smear of yolk from the corner of his mouth, and I almost lost it. I had to excuse myself to the porch and count to fifty before I could go back in without making a scene.
After breakfast, I found him doing dishes in the scalding water, humming under his breath. The sound carried through the house, so soft only I could hear it.
He didn't notice me behind him until I spoke. "You're going to boil your own skin off, Bridger."
He smirked. "Maybe I like it hot."
I wanted to bend him over the sink and show him exactly how hot it could get. Instead, I grabbed a towel and dried the plates, watching his hands move through the soap. The scars onhis knuckles had faded, but the memory of them was sharp in my head.
"You're staring," he said, not looking up.
"That's not a question."
He laughed, but it was shaky. "You always this intense?"
"Only when I want something."
He stopped washing. The bubbles slid down his wrists, leaving his skin red and raw.
I set the plate on the rack, leaned in so my voice was right at his ear. "You know you're mine now, right?"
He didn't move. "Yeah," he said, quiet. "I know."
I let the silence fill the kitchen, let it press against us until he started to squirm. Finally, I backed off. "You finish the dishes, then come find me."
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. I watched him work, cataloging every hitch in his breath, every time his knees knocked against the cabinet.
I was going to ruin him.
But not yet.
Not until he begged for it.
By noon, I was ready to snap. I spent the next hour in the shop, chopping boards for a rush order and picturing all the ways I could bend him over the workbench if I lost my grip.
Every time I turned, I expected to see him in the doorway, but he stayed away. The distance made my blood run hotter. By the time I finished, my shirt was glued to my back and my pulse was a freight train.
He finally showed up just before lunch, hair damp from a shower, wearing a clean t-shirt that clung to his chest in a way that made my fists clench. He leaned against the doorframe, eyes bright and nervous.
"You wanted to see me?"
I wanted to see all of him, preferably under me, begging for air. Instead, I said, "You done hiding?"
