Page 126 of Saddle and Scent
The certainty in his voice makes me look at him more closely. He's sitting on the edge of the dock, feet dangling in the water, and there's something contemplative about his expression that suggests deeper thoughts than our casual conversation would warrant.
"How can you be so sure?" I ask.
"Because I've been watching you all week," he says simply. "The way you light up when you're working outside, the way you move when you think no one's looking. You're more yourself out here than you ever were in enclosed spaces."
The observation is uncomfortably accurate, and I find myself studying his face for signs of the analytical distance that usually characterizes his assessments of people and situations. But instead of clinical observation, I see something softer. Something that looks like affection mixed with a kind of protective satisfaction.
Like he's pleased to have been proven right about something he's believed for a long time.
We spend another hour by the water, sharing the sandwiches Beckett packed and watching the sun sink toward the horizon. The conversation flows easily between all four of us—stories about the week's progress on the barn, plans for additional improvements to the property, gentle teasing about who'scontributed the most labor and who's been the most distracted by certain bikini-wearing Omegas.
It's comfortable in a way that feels both familiar and entirely new. Like we're rediscovering rhythms that used to define our interactions while simultaneously creating something that belongs entirely to who we are now.
As the evening light starts to fade, Wes and Beckett begin packing up the remains of our impromptu picnic with the kind of efficient teamwork that speaks to years of practice. They've got plans to head back to town—something about inventory at the bakery and a late-night emergency call at the veterinary clinic—but their departure feels natural rather than awkward.
"You two have fun," Wes says with a grin that suggests he knows exactly what kind of trouble Callum and I might get into if left to our own devices. "Try not to do anything I wouldn't do."
"That leaves a pretty wide range of possibilities," I point out.
"Exactly," he winks, then leans down to press a quick kiss to my forehead. "See you tomorrow, Junebug."
Beckett's farewell is quieter but no less affectionate—a gentle squeeze of my shoulder and a murmured reminder to eat something substantial for dinner instead of surviving on leftover sandwich crusts.
And then it's just Callum and me, sitting by the water as the first stars begin to appear in the darkening sky.
"Want to see my workshop?" he asks after we've sat in comfortable silence for several minutes.
The question surprises me, though it probably shouldn't. I know he has a woodworking setup somewhere on the property—I've seen the evidence in the perfectly crafted benches and dock construction—but he's never offered to show me the space where the actual creation happens.
"I'd love to," I say, meaning it.
His workshop turns out to be housed in a converted outbuilding behind the main barn, accessible via a well-worn path that suggests frequent use. The space itself is a study in organized efficiency—tools arranged with military precision, workbenches positioned to catch the best natural light, and the kind of dust collection system that speaks to serious investment in the craft.
But what really catches my attention are the projects in various stages of completion. A rocking chair that looks like it was designed for peaceful evening contemplation. A dining table with hand-carved details that would make furniture designers weep with envy.
A collection of smaller items—jewelry boxes, picture frames, decorative bowls—that showcase the kind of attention to detail usually reserved for heirloom pieces.
"Callum," I breathe, running my fingers along the smooth surface of the dining table. "This is incredible. How long have you been doing this?"
"Since high school," he says, moving to light a few strategically placed lanterns that cast warm pools of light throughout the space. "Started as a way to work off aggression, turned into something I actually enjoyed."
"These aren't just hobby pieces," I say, studying a jewelry box with intricate marquetry work. "This is professional-level craftsmanship."
A flush creeps up his neck at the compliment, and I realize he's genuinely modest about his skill level despite the obvious evidence of his talent.
"It's just something I do in my spare time," he says, but there's pleasure in his voice that suggests my appreciation means more than he's willing to admit.
"Bullshit," I say firmly. "This is art. Beautiful, functional art that's going to last for generations."
He moves to a cabinet and retrieves a bottle of whiskey along with two glasses, the amber liquid catching the lantern light like liquid gold.
"Thought you might like to try your hand at some basic carving," he says, pouring generous measures for both of us. "Nothing complicated, just enough to get a feel for how wood responds to different tools."
The whiskey burns pleasantly as it goes down, spreading warmth through my chest and helping to settle the nervous energy that always seems to accompany one-on-one time with any of them. Callum selects a piece of smooth pine and a collection of carving tools, arranging everything on the workbench with the kind of care usually reserved for surgical instruments.
"First lesson," he says, positioning himself behind me much like he did when teaching me to hammer nails. "Wood has grain, and you have to work with it, not against it. Try to carve across the grain and you'll get nothing but splinters and frustration."
His hands cover mine as he demonstrates the proper grip on the carving knife, guiding my movements with the same patient attention he brought to construction work. But here, in the intimate space of his workshop surrounded by the evidence of his skill and passion, the contact feels more charged.
