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“Start on these.” I set a few lengths of rough cherry in front of him. “They’ll be the legs for your table once I shape them. Right now they’re straight off the saw and need to come smooth. It’s slow, patient work. Long, even strokes. Let the paper do the work.”
He nodded and smiled. “Got it.”
We settled into a comfortable rhythm, Jake smoothing the leg stock while I returned to the headboard. Christmas music played softly on the radio. The December light slanted through the workshop windows, and I stole glances at Jake as he worked.
There was something meditative about watching him, the careful attention he paid to keeping his strokes even and consistent. It was difficult to focus on what I was supposed to be doing with him right there with his powerful arms at work.
“Can I ask you something?” Jake said after we’d been working in silence for twenty minutes.
“Of course.”
“What’s it like? Building furniture for someone’s bedroom?” Jake paused his sanding, looking at me. “Is it different from other pieces?”
The question caught me off guard, partly because of its intimacy and partly because I’d been thinking about this particular set of furniture since I’d started on it.
“It is different,” I said carefully. “Bedroom furniture is personal in a way that other furniture isn’t. It’s where people are most vulnerable, most themselves. It’s the room in the house that should most feel like an escape. In particular, when I build a bed frame, I think about the person who’ll sleep in it, dream in it, wake up in it.”
“What do you think about when you’re building mine?”
The directness of the question stopped my hands on the wood. Again, Jake watched me, like he had when I stretched, waiting for an answer that was loaded with possibility.
“I think about making something worthy of you,” I said finally. “Something strong enough to last, and beautiful enough to make you happy every time you see it. Something that fits who you are.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
I set down my chisel and looked at him fully. “For you, that’s someone who values quality over convenience. Someone who honors traditions while building something new. Someone who...” I hesitated, then decided on honesty. “Someone who deserves furniture built with love.”
Jake let the silence sit there and waited me out.
“Care,” I corrected quickly, but that didn’t stop heat from rising in my cheeks. “I meant care. Professional care for the work.”
Jake set his sandpaper down and moved toward me. He had bits of sawdust caught in the beard he’d been growing since the road trip. The workshop felt smaller suddenly, filled with everything we hadn’t said.
“Nico,” Jake said quietly. “Are we still talking about furniture?”
I lost myself in his green eyes and found myself done with pretending. “No. I don’t think we are.”
“Good. Because I’ve been thinking about the other night non-stop.”
“Oh?” My mouth went dry, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“The way you looked at me when you showed me the tabletop. And how you made hot chocolate. The concentration you have when you’re working.” Jake cupped my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “How your lips looked when we almost… I can’t get you out of my head.”
His admission made my breath catch. “Jake...”
“I know it’s crazy. We’ve known each other a week.”
“Nine days,” I corrected automatically.
A small smile crossed his face. “Is that long enough to know that I want to kiss you?”
Instead of answering, I made the first move.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if we were both afraid of breaking something fragile. But then Jake’s arms came around me, pulling me closer, and I leaned into the solid warmth of his body.
He tasted like sugar cookies. His hands were warm against my back, and when he made a small sound of pleasure against my mouth, I answered that with a groan of my own.
We broke apart slowly, breathing hard, still holding each other in the warm light of the workshop.
