I hovered at the threshold, not wanting to break the spell. Macon stood with his back to me, bent over the bench, hands moving slow and precise over a curved piece of wood. The sunangled through the high window, catching flecks of dust in the air and painting his shoulders gold.
He was working on a cradle.
Not a flat-pack, Target special. A real one, solid and old-fashioned, every edge sanded to a gentle round. The body of it was all pale, raw maple, but he’d inlaid a band of cedar around the rim, the colors soft and warm together. His hands dwarfed the thing, but he handled it like a relic, turning it slow, running his thumb over each groove, checking for anything that might catch a child’s skin.
I watched him for a minute, maybe longer. He wore a plain t-shirt, no logo, the kind that showed off the muscles across his shoulders without trying. The light found every scar on his forearms, every place a bullet or blade or piece of shrapnel had left its mark. But those hands, the ones that could break bone or splinter a door, were soft with the wood.
It made something in my chest ache.
He must have heard me—maybe the boards under my boots, maybe the shift in the air—because he turned, setting the cradle gently on the bench.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough from not talking all morning.
I swallowed, tongue thick. “Hey.”
He brushed his palms on his jeans, leaving streaks of dust on the thighs, and crossed the shop in three steps. He stopped a foot away, not quite touching, but close enough I could feel his heat.
“Wanted to surprise you,” he said, nodding back at the workbench.
“You did,” I managed, fighting the urge to look down or away.
He looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. “You good?” he asked, not just about the morning.
I nodded. “Better than I’ve been in years.”
He reached out and thumbed a streak of hay from my hair. His fingers lingered, knuckles tracing the line of my jaw, then dropping to the collar of the flannel. “You been in the barn?”
“With Jojo. He showed me how to keep the goats from eating their own bedding.”
Macon’s eyes crinkled, the beginnings of a smile. “Didn’t think you’d last a week with them.”
“Didn’t think you’d ever wear a shirt without holes.”
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine.
We stood there, the silence comfortable for once. Outside, a crow called from the tree line, and somewhere in the house, Burke was singing along to the radio, off-key.
“Can I see it?” I asked, nodding to the cradle.
He led me over, one hand warm at the small of my back. Up close, I could see the care in every detail—the way the legs flared out, just enough to keep it from ever tipping; the smoothness of the rails; the little curl of wood carved into the headboard. Macon ran a hand along the edge, slow, almost reverent.
“It’s not done yet,” he said. “But I wanted it ready before…”
Before everything changed, he didn’t say.
“It’s beautiful,” I told him, and meant it.
He watched me, eyes soft in a way I’d never seen on him before. For a second, I thought he might cry, but instead he just pulled me in, arms wrapping around my waist. My belly pressed against his ribs, and I felt him inhale, deep and steady.
He kissed me, light at first, then harder, mouth opening on a rush of breath. I melted into him, hands finding the back of his neck, fingers digging in. He tasted like sawdust and coffee and something all his own.
He broke the kiss first, lips brushing my ear. “I love you,” he said, barely above a whisper.
I squeezed him back, not trusting myself to speak. “Me too,” I said, but it came out muffled, lost in the fabric of his shirt.
He held me until I calmed, until my heart stopped rattling around inside my chest. Then he set his chin on the top of my head and just breathed with me.
It could have stayed like that all day, but the world had other plans.
