The shop below was already waiting for me. I padded down the narrow steps, mug in hand, flicking the lights on as I went. Every shadow snapped into focus: the stack of sanded chair legs lined up like soldiers, the new order of steel files gleaming beside the bandsaw, the half-built credenza on the main table waiting for its next layer of finish. I ran my hand over the surface, feeling for splinters, and found none. I always checked anyway.
There was a rhythm to this, every movement nailed to a sequence: unlock the back door, prime the air compressor, checkthe glue-ups, oil the blades. It was more ritual than necessity—some days I barely needed to do anything before the town started up—but I liked the comfort of habit.
The sun hadn’t cleared the ridge yet, but already the world was coming to life. The distant thud of boots on gravel, a rooster crowing like it owned the place, the far-off engine of Pa’s truck as he headed out for feed.
I paused at the workbench and looked out the window. The main house glowed with that fake-gold light they put in old fixtures, a color that didn’t exist anywhere else on the property.
I pictured Levi behind one of those windows, hair sticking up, feet curled under his knees on the kitchen stool, probably sketching the patterns in the steam rising from his mug.
It did something to me, the thought of him waking up just out of sight. I flexed my hand until the knuckles popped, then went back to work.
I spent the first hour sanding a drawer front, but my mind kept drifting. Every little movement—every inhale, every muscle twitch—pulled me closer to the idea of him, like there was a wire running from my chest to wherever he was. Even the sound of the sander became background noise to the drumbeat of his name. I tried to ignore it.
Didn’t work.
Eventually, I gave in. I wiped down the tools, set the project aside, and went back up to the apartment. I changed shirts, picked the one that didn’t have varnish stains on it, and pulled on my heaviest boots.
I checked my reflection in the warped mirror by the door. Still looked like hell, but it’d have to do. I splashed water on my face, ran my hand over the burr of my hair, and grunted at the cold.
The bracelet caught on the cuff of my sleeve as I dried off. I turned it so the letters faced out, the black imprint neat againstmy wrist.Sunshine. The word felt weird on me, but I kept it anyway. Maybe I just liked the way his name sat next to my pulse.
By the time I stepped outside, the sun had started burning the mist off the orchard. Rows of trees faded in and out of view, the ground still slick with dew.
Every breath I took came with a lungful of sweet rot from the compost pile and the faint smoke from the woodstove in the main house. The gravel path crunched under my boots, each step loud in the hush of morning.
Halfway up the slope, I heard voices. Bodean yelling at the chickens, his whoop bouncing off the barn walls; Harlow muttering to the horses, their stomps and snorts rising in reply. The farm was loud, but it wasn’t the noise that made it alive—it was the friction between all the moving parts, the way every task depended on the next, a living thing that never stopped demanding.
I kept walking. The closer I got to the house, the more my body wanted to pick up the pace, like I could close the distance just by will alone. I made myself slow down, even as my heart tried to race ahead.
I paused at the edge of the porch. From inside, I could hear laughter and the clatter of dishes. I waited a second, hands in my pockets, forcing myself to breathe slow. The door swung open, and I stepped inside, letting the warmth and noise wash over me.
Levi waited at the farmhouse door, backlit by the honey glow of kitchen lamps and the flurry of breakfast behind him. He wore a threadbare t-shirt, the hem twisted from where he’d probably yanked it off the floor, and his hair stuck out at every compass point. It shouldn’t have been a good look, but on him it was perfect—like he’d rolled out of bed and dared the world to find fault.
He was there, right where I’d pictured him. Levi. He looked up, caught my eye, and grinned so wide I felt it in my chest.
I let myself have that second, let it settle in my bones, before I went to him. That’s how I knew it was real—because every part of me, the parts that survived war and worse, still remembered how to want.
When he spotted me, something in his posture shifted, his whole body straightening. He hovered for half a second, then all but collided with me on the porch. The coffee in his hand sloshed dangerously close to the rim.
“Hey,” he said, and his voice came out weirdly soft, like a note held on a string just about to snap.
I didn’t answer right away. I took inventory: his pupils blown wide, shirt still rumpled from sleep, the thin band of leather at his wrist almost shining in the angle of morning light. I wanted to run my thumb over it, but I waited.
Instead, I said, “Morning, Sunshine.” He’d always hated the nickname—called it embarrassing, begged me not to use it. But now he smiled, big and full, and shook his head.
“Quiad,” he breathed out, my name like a secret between us.
He didn’t waste time. He all but fell against my chest, cheek pressed to the curve of my shoulder. His coffee mug clattered on the porch rail and he looped both arms around my waist, fingers digging in. I could feel the tremor running through him, half nerves, half relief.
“I missed you,” he said, as if we hadn’t just seen each other yesterday.
It was the kind of confession that would’ve embarrassed most people, but he was never one to ration out his feelings. He said the thing and then looked up, waiting to see if I’d flinch.
I didn’t. I wrapped one hand around the back of his head and let my fingers tangle in his hair—soft, barely dry from his rushed morning shower—and pulled him closer. I bent down and kissedthe crown of his head. He made a sound, something between a sigh and a hum, and the rest of the tension melted out of his shoulders.
The world could’ve burned down around us and he wouldn’t have noticed.
He tilted his chin and blinked up at me, eyes half-closed like he was fighting off sleep or a trance. “That’s it?” he teased, but the edge was gone from his voice, replaced by something like awe.
