I hated leaving him at the main house. Hated it the way I hated losing grip on a tool mid-project, the way I hated unfinished work. He should’ve been here, stretched out in my bed, limbs wild and loose and his body heat spreading into mine.
Instead, he was a quarter acre and a dozen walls away, probably lying awake himself, and the ache of that distance knifed deeper than I wanted to admit.
The urge to go there, to just open his window and haul him out by the waist, was almost physical. I flexed my fingers, working out the need, and the mattress creaked under my weight. I’d built this bed myself when I first moved above the shop, the frame mortised and pegged from raw walnut, every corner sanded down by hand. Most nights, the solidity of it was enough to keep me anchored.
Tonight, nothing could hold me still.
I turned my head. The clock on the dresser blinked 1:47. I’d been staring at the ceiling for three hours. Maybe four. Even the familiar hush of the shop below couldn’t settle my thoughts.
I reached over to the nightstand for my water, glass nearly empty. My hand brushed the corner of my phone, but I ignoredit. If I texted him now, he’d come. He always did. That was the problem.
Instead, I stared at the line of tools mounted above my workbench: the chisels, the block plane, the fine-toothed saw, all gleaming in the thin blue light. Order was how I kept the world from swallowing me. Every handle in its place, every blade sharpened and oiled and turned just so. But even with everything in its proper place, I felt wrong tonight. Unsettled. Over-wound.
My wrist itched. I glanced down and rolled it over, the new bracelet snug against my skin.Sunshine, in those tiny black letters. It was nothing but a strip of leather and a few grams of metal, but it may as well have been a brand. I liked the weight of it, the constant reminder of him.
The thought crept in: what would it feel like to have him marked everywhere—my hands, my chest, the back of my neck? My jaw clenched at the thought, teeth grinding out a rhythm to match my heartbeat.
A draft from the window brought the cold in, prickling over my arms. I didn’t mind it. Better than the flush that started in my gut every time I remembered how he’d leaned into me, trusting, eager, not even pretending he didn’t want to be claimed.
The contrast between how fragile he looked and how hard he had clung when I touched him. I’d thought, after so long holding myself at arm’s length, that I’d be able to ease into this slow. That the old discipline would carry me through the transition from protector to—whatever the hell I was now. But it didn’t. The discipline just made me more aware of every second I had to hold back.
I untangled the sheets and swung my legs over the edge, bracing elbows on my knees. The floor was cold and rough under my feet, but it kept me awake.
I looked around the apartment: plain, spare, nothing in it I hadn’t made myself except the ancient fridge and the battered coffee pot. The only sign of Levi in the place was the navy hoodie I’d left on the chair by the door. He’d worn it last week, sleeves dragged over his hands, hood cinched so tight it framed his face like a punchline. I wanted it to smell like him, but I’d washed it out of habit.
I’d have to fix that.
I stared out the window for a while, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. The orchard was a shadowed blur, the trees just black forms huddled together. Up the hill, the main house glowed soft gold from the kitchen, probably a lamp left on to ward off whatever ghosts haunted the place. My own ghosts didn’t respond to light.
I’d tried.
I lay back down, this time sprawled diagonal, hands behind my head. I closed my eyes and let my mind go where it wanted. I pictured waking up with Levi there, the warmth of his body pressed against my ribs, his hair matted to my jaw, the little puffs of his breath fogging my chest.
I’d curl a hand around his neck, thumb stroking the soft spot just below his ear, and he’d hum low in his throat, the way he did when he got what he wanted, but hadn’t expected to.
I let myself want it for a few minutes, just to see how much of it I could stand before it got dangerous. I lasted longer than I’d expected, but not much.
Eventually, exhaustion crept in, or maybe I just gave up fighting it. The next time I blinked, the sky outside had gone from black to that colorless not-quite-morning, the farm caught between night and day.
I lay there, still awake but finally numb, waiting for the house to come alive: the crow of the roosters, the first groan of the barn doors, the thud of boots on the porch.
In another hour, it’d be time to see him again. The thought calmed the restlessness a little, let it settle deeper in my bones instead of rattling around inside my skull.
I watched the sky grow lighter, the edge of the sun crawling up over the orchard. I flexed my hand, feeling the band dig into my wrist, and let myself smile, just for a second.
He was mine, and soon enough, everyone else would know it.
I didn’t so much wake as surface, lungs full of cold morning air and brain snapping to alert before the rest of me could protest. I rolled out of bed and landed hard, the shock of the floorboards on bare feet grounding me.
For a minute I just stood, taking inventory: hands, back, neck, all accounted for. Only my patience felt worn thin at the edges, but that was a familiar ache.
Coffee first, always.
The kitchen was a strip of counter and a hot plate wedged between the fridge and the workbench, but it did the job. I rinsed the old grounds from the percolator and filled it with a scoop more than necessary. I liked the bitterness—it kept me sharp.
As the water boiled, I threw open the window, letting the bite of dawn fill the place. The whole apartment smelled like burnt motor oil and soap, with an undercurrent of cedar dust from last night’s project.
I breathed it in, steady and deep.
