Around the edge, he’d carved a band of thorns, but if you looked close, every third thorn was actually a tiny heart, hidden just enough that you’d miss it unless you were searching for it.
I ran my finger over the lid, barely breathing.
“It’s for your drawings,” he said. His voice was rough, not just from dust but from something bigger. “So you can put them somewhere safe. So nobody can take them from you.”
He didn’t have to say the rest.
I looked at the box, then at him, and for the first time in weeks, I felt the ache in my chest loosen. I wanted to cry, or maybe laugh, or maybe smash the box just to prove it was real and I could still feel something. Instead, I set the coffee down and stepped into his arms, careful not to press too hard.
He held me. Just held me.
Outside, the creek sang to itself, and I let the sound wash over us, mixing with the dust and the sweat and the hum of a house that finally felt like home.
I pulled back, just enough to look him in the eye. “You’re getting soft, Quiad.”
He squeezed me, careful of my ribs. “Not soft. Just smarter.”
I laughed, and it didn’t even hurt. Not much, anyway. I tucked the box under my arm, clutched it like a lifeline, and watched him get back to work. He picked up the chisel, bent his head, and started carving again. I knew he’d keep at it, all day, until his hands forgot how to hurt and his mind finally let him rest.
I watched him, and for the first time since the alley, I wasn’t scared. I was safe. I was here. And if anyone tried to take that away again, they’d have to go through both of us.
Good luck to them.
The first thing I did was set the box down and open it—slow, like there might be something alive inside. The hinges creaked, and I saw the inside was lined with navy felt, glued in perfect squares.
I imagined my sketchbook inside it, pencils and old photos, maybe even the hospital bracelet from the first night Quiad stayed by my bed, back when I was still too scared to ask him to hold my hand in the light.
Quiad just wiped his hands on the rag again, then started cleaning up the bench, stacking his chisels and files in neat rows. I watched his hands, the way they trembled just a little, and felt the thump of my own heart against my breastbone.
I put the box down, hard enough to rattle the workbench. “I don’t want a safe. I want a lap.”
He shot me a look, equal parts warning and panic. “You’re supposed to be healing, Levi.”
I grinned, because even with half my torso a bruise, I could always out-stubborn him. I stepped closer, threading between the saw horses and the piles of rough timber, then hitched myself up onto his lap, slow and careful.
He caught me under the thighs, one hand anchoring me, the other hovering just in case I slipped. I draped my arms aroundhis neck, resting my cheek against the warm line of his jaw. The smell of sweat and sawdust was so familiar it nearly broke me.
“I’m not made of glass, Quiad,” I whispered, voice muffled against his skin. “You’re not gonna break me.”
He squeezed me, careful of my ribs. For a second, his whole body went rigid. Then he relaxed, the tension draining out like he was just too tired to hold onto it anymore. I felt his breath hitch, then even out, the rise and fall syncing with mine.
“I keep seeing them hurting you,” he said. The words didn’t sound like him, but he forced them out. “Every time I close my eyes. I want to fix it, but I can’t.” His hand went to the back of my neck, fingers splaying out to cradle my skull. “You should hate me, for letting it happen.”
That stung, because he believed it. He’d carried the guilt like a stone ever since that day, no matter how many times I told him he saved me, not the other way around.
I grabbed his face, palms cupping his beard, and forced him to look at me. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “You hear me? I’m here. I’m a McKenzie now, and McKenzies don’t quit.”
He snorted, which was as close as he ever got to a laugh when he was sad. “You’re the only one who could have survived us.”
I leaned in, pressed my lips to his. He tasted like coffee and salt, and the kiss was half promise, half dare. He kissed back, slow at first, then with the kind of hunger that only comes from losing something and getting it back.
When we broke apart, I was panting. So was he.
He put his forehead to mine, eyes closed. “Those men are in jail. We won. So why does it still feel like I lost?”
I traced the edge of his jaw, the little scar near his earlobe, the one he never talked about. “Because you still see the marks they left.”
He nodded, silent.
