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“Maybe it’s time I stopped being afraid of being worthy. Maybe it’s time I started using the gifts she gave me.”

“The mark?”

“All of it. The skills, the tools, the understanding that good work honors everyone who came before.” Jake looked around the office, at the scattered pieces of his past. “It might be time to stop treating woodworking as if it was a hobby and treat it like what it really is.”

“Which is?”

“Part of who I am. A hockey player who’s also a woodworker. It’s also part of what I want to build. With you. If you want to build something together.”

He said it the way you hand over a finished piece. Careful. Hoping for approval. I didn’t make him wait. “I’d like to build with you.”

“Good.” Jake grinned—the same grin as the boy in the barn photo, twenty years on. “Because I’ve got some ideas about how we could combine our skills and create pieces that honor both our traditions.”

I thought about my grandfather’s mark waiting in the workshop. About the cherry table I wanted to be worthy of it. I probably needed to take the advice I gave to Jake and actually use the mark too.

“I’d like that,” I said. “Very much.”

His finding that sketchbook had sent me out of the shop earlier. Now I’d found the mark he was afraid he hadn’t earned. We’d each turned up what the other had kept put away.

Jake stood, brought me close, and gave me a kiss, soft and sure. What started as a gentle press of lips deepened. We both understood what we’d committed to. His hand cupped the back of my neck. He kissed me as if he was trying to seal our agreement with something more binding than words.

I melted into him, my arms winding around his waist to pull him closer. Our kisses were slow and thorough, unhurried, the luxury of a Sunday where we could take the time. When Jake’s tongue traced the seam of my lips, I opened for him gladly. He tasted like coffee and maple syrup, which I probably did too.

“Nico,” he murmured against my mouth, my name soft and reverent.

We kissed until we were both breathing hard.

When we finally broke apart, we looked at each other, catching our breath.

“We should...” he started, then seemed to lose track of what he was going to say.

“Go to the workshop,” I finished, though I made no move to step away from him.

“In a minute,” he said, and kissed me again, shorter this time but no less meaningful.

Eventually, reluctantly, we separated. Jake gathered the rest of his memories and placed them carefully back in the wooden box. His grandmother’s mark didn’t get put away. Instead, he kept it in his hand.

“Come on,” he said, grinning at me. “Let’s go build something beautiful.”

Nine

Jake

I pulled into my driveway a little after six ready to start the holiday break. Darkness had already settled over the neighborhood, which sparkled with lights. From the workshop, Nico’s silhouette moved behind the windows. But something was off as his movements seemed... agitated. Restless.

I pushed open the door to find him standing at his workbench, staring down at his phone with an expression I couldn’t read. He’d been doing that for days. Checking it every time it buzzed, then setting it down without sending a response.

“Hey,” I said. “Everything get out okay?”

Nico looked up. His answer came a beat too late for a man with nothing on his mind. “Uh, yeah. Everyone loved what they picked up and promised to leave me a good review. And Mrs. Whitfield brought fudge.” He pointed to a festive tin, its lid askew, on the counter near my workbench.

The area where the rocking chair and side table had sat stood empty, the floor beneath it swept clean.

“That’s great. So you’re officially caught up on Christmas orders?”

“Yeah.” Nico set his phone aside, but not before he glanced at it one more time. “How was the game?”

“We won. But that’s not important right now.” I moved closer. His shoulders sat high and tight, and he wasn’t quite meeting my eyes. “What’s wrong?”