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“You’re very pleased with yourself,” I say.

“I am.”

“Come here.”

I push on his shoulder until he lies back. He goes, because I asked, not because I could move him. I couldn’t move him with a forklift. I stay on my side next to him, off my knees, and put my hand on him, and he closes his eyes and says my name. Not Boss. My actual name.

I take my time too.

I learn what he likes. He likes it slow, and then not slow. He likes it when I put my feet on his horn at the same time. He really likes that. His breathing goes ragged, and the whole bed creaks for the first time. When he comes, he turns his face into the pillow so he won’t be loud, and his whole body tightens under my hands and then goes slack.

He lies there breathing for a long minute.

“Boss,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“I need a second.”

“Take two. I’m not going anywhere.”

Afterward, he pulls the green quilt over both of us and lies on his side, and I lie with my back against his chest, and his arm is around me. His arm alone is longer than my whole torso.

I’m warm and loose and sleepy. My knees still hurt. I don’t care.

After a while, I can feel him getting ideas again. His hand starts moving on my hip. His breathing changes. And I want to. I do. I turn over to face him, and look at him, and look down, and think about it.

Then I start laughing again.

“What,” Tav says.

“Okay,” I say. “I want to. I really want to. But not today. And not without, like, a plan.” I put my hand on his chest. “We’re going to have to work up to you.”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he laughs. A real laugh, from deep in his chest, so big the bed shakes.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay? That’s it?”

“I’m a contractor, Boss.” His ears are all the way forward. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. “Every big job has phases.”

“Oh my God.”

“You don’t pour the foundation and frame the roof the same afternoon.”

“Tav.”

I have my face in his chest, laughing. It hurts my ribs.

He puts his hand on the back of my head and holds it there. “I don’t rush things I care about, Boss. I’ve been building you that stool for a week and I’m not done with it.”

I lift my head.

“Okay,” I say. “Phases.”

“Phases,” he says.