But I’d watched the way he squared up, the set of his jaw, and I knew: whatever grip she had was dead and buried. It only took one glance, one touch of the tattoo, and the old patterns snapped, gone for good.
The family had formed a wall around us, Knox and Harlow and even Ma, holding the line with a quiet ferocity I’d never really appreciated before. But that was the thing about McKenzies—we didn’t lose what was ours. Not to fate, not to con artists, not to the ghosts of childhood.
When we got home, Pa grilled steaks and poured whiskey, and the whole clan sat up late, laughing and pretending it was just another Tuesday.
But now, with everyone gone and Levi’s body heavy on mine, I felt the last pieces lock into place. This house was ours. This life was ours.
The quiet was total, broken only by the tick of the wall clock in the kitchen and the creak of new wood as the house cooled. Every inch of it was familiar: the frame I’d hammered together one November when the rain wouldn’t let up, the trim I’d stained to Levi’s impossible specs, the built-in shelving he insisted on painting gold. Even the mattress was new, a wedding gift from Bodean, who claimed he’d “tested it for quality” before letting us haul it home.
I didn’t want to know.
I shifted, just enough to see Levi’s face. He was all sharp lines and sleep-slack mouth, the kind of face you could read a mile away even when he thought he was hiding everything.
I let my eyes linger there, memorizing every freckle, every place the old shadows still clung. There was a stripe of dried salt on his cheek from where he’d cried last night—anger, relief, the memory of Gloria’s touch. I’d licked it off, then kissed him until the only thing left was mine.
The possessive thrill surprised me, every time. I’d never thought of myself as a romantic, and definitely not as a husband. But the sight of his body draped over mine, the ink and the leather and the faint scrape of his stubble against my chest—these things satisfied a hunger I didn’t have a name for. I wanted to lock the doors, draw the curtains, and keep him pinned here forever, safe from everything and everyone.
He twitched, a little, and the heel of his hand pressed into my sternum. I caught it, trapped his palm against my heart, and just held on.
Maybe he’d wake soon, and maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, the darkness was perfect. I could have lived a hundred mornings like this and never wanted another thing.
I counted the seconds in time with the slow, steady beat of his pulse, and waited for dawn to find us.
The house still smelled of solvent and new sawdust, the perfume of sweat and varnish sunk deep into the grain of every board. I eased out of bed, careful as a thief, extracting myself from Levi’s grip without waking him.
He didn’t even twitch—just burrowed into the pillows, hair spilling in a haystack around his face, mouth open enough to remind me how soft he really was, despite everything the world had tried to sand off.
Barefoot, I made my way down the hallway, each step waking a different note from the new floorboards: a groan from the joist by the bathroom, a sharp pop from the one near the closet Levi insisted on painting tangerine.
I ran a hand along the banister, feeling the way the finish caught on my palm. It wasn’t perfect, but neither was I. The little scars and knots gave the house more soul.
The kitchen was a fortress—high ceilings, exposed beams, the giant butcher block I’d fashioned from reclaimed oak. I brewed the coffee slow, grinding the beans to a rough grit and setting the kettle on the gas flame with the ritual precision of a soldier prepping for inspection.
The sound of boiling water filled the room, so loud against the morning hush I almost regretted not letting Levi sleep through the first pot.
Almost.
The world outside was gray, the windows fogged with condensation and streaks of pollen from the river wind. Through the kitchen glass, I could just make out the bend in the creek, the dark line of trees crowding the bank. This early, even the birds weren’t up. The only movement was the lazy swirl of mist on the water.
I took my mug and made a circuit of the house, tracing the edges of what I’d built. Every door hung plumb. Every corner met true. The mudroom was already scuffed with Levi’s boots, the pegs by the door filled with his jackets, all of them patched or stained in a way that made Ma sigh and Levi smirk. I touched the railings, the shelves, the sills, half-expecting them to disappear if I stopped paying attention. But they held.
On the west side, the art studio caught the earliest light. I let myself in, breathing the sharp tang of turpentine and paper, and took in the view. Levi’s world was chaos—drawings pinned everywhere, some hanging half-off the walls, others curled and piled in stacks that threatened to topple with a single breath.
The desk was a minefield of pencils, uncapped markers, and coffee mugs that had surrendered their contents to evaporation long ago. But the chaos made sense, in its way. I’d built thestudio exactly to his spec: north-facing windows, a workbench long enough to sprawl on, floorboards wide enough to take a beating.
The real surprise was the wall above the drafting table. Last week it’d been blank, but now it was crowded with sketches. Most were of hands—my hands, rough and oversized, bent around a mallet or splayed flat on the table. Some were of my face, usually when I wasn’t looking, the hard angles softened by the way he saw me. One was just the line of my shoulders, inked bold and black, no frills. I stared at them for a long minute, the coffee forgotten and cooling in my grip.
He’d drawn me as I was—no hero, no villain, just a man standing in his own house. The effect made my throat tight, the way a perfect dovetail joint always did. I ran my thumb over the edge of a sketch, feeling the paper bend under the pressure.
There were other drawings, too. Some of Harlow, his face half-shadowed, but kind. One of Knox and Newt, side by side and not looking at each other. A few landscapes: the river in full flood, the dead oak by the barn, the view from the back steps on a morning just like this. But the most ink, the most paper, had gone into drawing me. I wondered if Levi knew what it did to me, seeing myself through his eyes.
I doubted it.
I lingered in the studio, the silence thick and alive. When I finally moved on, it was with the sense of having trespassed somewhere private, even though this was my house, my work, my right.
Down the hall, I checked the rest of the rooms. The guest room was half-finished, the spare bed still wrapped in plastic. The laundry was already stacked with Levi’s clothes, most of which he’d never let Ma touch, for reasons he’d never admit out loud. The reading nook at the end of the hall was still empty,waiting on the cushions I’d promised to sew when the weather turned.
I walked back to the bedroom, sipping my coffee slow, letting the heat sink in. Levi was still asleep, the covers tangled around his hips, his tattooed arm flung out over my pillow.
