Quiad narrowed his eyes, lips pressed in a thin line. “You don’t do dares.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I do now.”
He held my gaze for a long time. I could feel my cheeks getting hot, and not from the sun.
“Sunshine,” he said, and my pulse went wild. “No secrets.”
I swallowed, then nodded. “Tomorrow. I promise. I want to show you when it’s… better.”
He relaxed just a hair, then uncrossed his arms and reached for my face. His palm covered my cheek and the side of my jaw, thumb tracing the spot just below my eye, where freckles went wild in the summer.
I leaned into it, eyes closed for a second, and felt the world snap into focus. The pressure of his hand, the rough callus of his thumb, the way he tilted my face up until I had to meet his eyes.
“Okay,” he said, and his voice was pure steel. “Tomorrow. But I’ll be thinking about it until then.”
“Me too,” I whispered, because I couldn’t not.
He dropped his hand, then pulled me in by the back of my neck, pressing my forehead to his collarbone. I went limp against him, letting the heat and the weird, woodsy scent of his shirt surround me.
For a minute, he just held me there, breathing slow and deep. “Eat,” he said, finally releasing me. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
I obeyed, peeling the wrapper off my sandwich and taking a shaky bite. He watched every move, like he was cataloguing me for later. We ate in silence, just the two of us in the golden light, sawdust drifting down from the rafters.
Every time I reached for the next bite, the stretch of the bandage reminded me of what was underneath, still fresh and raw, still burning with the promise I’d made to myself.
After lunch, he showed me what he’d been working on: a chair, simple but beautiful, the wood oiled to a deep glow. He had me run my hand along the finished rail, then watch as he joined the pieces together. He talked about dovetail joints and grain direction, but the whole time, I could tell he was waiting for me to say more.
I wanted to—God, I wanted to just rip off the bandage and show him right then, watch his face go soft and proud and maybe a little bit angry—but I held back, letting the anticipation build until it felt like a live current in the room.
When it was time to go, he walked me to the door, hand braced against the jamb above my head. He dipped his head until our noses almost touched.
“Tomorrow,” he said again, like a warning.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
On the way out, I caught my reflection in the window: hoodie swallowed my frame, hair stuck up in three directions, cheeks flushed and lips bitten red. I looked nervous, desperate, maybe a little wild. But I also looked like someone with a secret worth keeping, if just for another day.
I flexed my wrist in the sunlight, feeling the sting, the heat, the weight of what I’d done.
Tomorrow, I’d show him.
And it’d be worth every second I’d waited.
Chapter Five
~ Quiad ~
I was already at the shop when the sun broke open behind the orchard, bleeding light through the warped windowpanes. The world outside was a cold wash, but in here it was all dust and glue and the click of my own pulse in my ears.
I’d been at it since three, hands finding their way through habit: block plane, chisel, sandpaper, repeat. Even when I didn’t have a job lined up, I made pieces for the sake of making them. The rhythm kept me from spinning out.
Today I couldn’t settle. The bandsaw blade was too loud. Every joint I mortised felt an eighth off, no matter how many times I checked the fit. When I finally blew the wood shavings off the bench, it hung in the air instead of settling, catching the sun and making it look like the whole shop was on fire.
My mind kept replaying yesterday. The lunch break with Levi, the way he’d kept his left arm tucked close, the quick flinch when I touched it. He’d been hiding something, and I hadn’t pressed, but the image of his wrist wrapped in fresh white gauze had burned itself into my brain.
He was supposed to come in this morning, help me joint a couple planks for the new gate on Ma’s garden. I heard the gravel crunch outside, light and tentative, then the slow drag of boots up the back steps. The shop door creaked open, and he stood in the frame, backlit and wary, hoodie pulled over his hair and the sleeves bunched tight at the cuffs.
I didn’t say anything, just watched him. He hesitated, maybe waiting for me to break the silence. When I didn’t, he stepped in and closed the door behind him, the lock clicking in the hush.
