Page 127 of Saddle and Scent
More intentional.
"Feel that?" he murmurs as the blade slides smoothly through the wood. "When you're working with the grain, it's almost effortless. The wood wants to be shaped."
"Like this?" I ask, adjusting my angle according to his guidance.
"Perfect," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "You're a natural."
We work in companionable silence, the whiskey and the gentle concentration required for carving creating a bubbleof intimacy that feels separate from the rest of the world. Occasionally he offers guidance or demonstrates a particular technique, but mostly he just lets me explore the feel of the tools and the responsive nature of the wood.
"What should I carve?" I ask when I've gotten comfortable with the basic motions.
"Whatever feels right," he says. "Though there's something to be said for starting with initials. Simple letters, but you can put your own style into the curves and lines."
The suggestion makes sense, and I find myself carefully outlining the letters of my name in the smooth pine surface. The work is meditative, requiring just enough concentration to quiet the constant chatter of my thoughts while leaving room for awareness of Callum's presence beside me.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," I say as I work on the curve of the 'J'.
He's quiet for long enough that I think he might not answer, but then he speaks with the kind of careful honesty that suggests he's sharing something important.
"I used to think I'd never leave Saddlebrush," he says. "Not because I couldn't, but because I never wanted to. This place, these people, this life—it was enough. More than enough."
"Used to?" I prompt gently.
"After you left, nothing felt permanent anymore," he admits. "Like everything I thought I could count on was just temporary, waiting for the next person to decide they needed something bigger or better or different."
The quiet pain in his voice makes my chest ache with sympathy and guilt in equal measure. Because I understand now what my departure cost them, how it shattered assumptions about stability and permanence that had nothing to do with romantic attachment and everything to do with the basic human need for community.
"I never wanted to leave," I say quietly. "Not really. I just felt like I didn't have a choice."
"I know," he says. "And I know we're the ones who made you feel that way. Doesn't make it hurt less, but I understand why you did what you did."
I set down the carving knife and turn to face him fully. In the soft lantern light, his features look younger, more vulnerable than his usual stoic expression allows.
"What about now?" I ask. "Do you still want to stay here forever?"
His smile is soft and genuine, transforming his entire face. "Now I want whatever you want. If you want to build something here, I'm all in. If you decide you need to see the world, I'll figure out how to make that work too."
"That's a lot of responsibility to put on someone," I point out.
"Not responsibility," he corrects. "Just honesty. You're the variable that makes every other decision make sense."
The admission hangs between us like a bridge, solid and inviting and terrifying in its implications. Because what he's describing isn't just attraction or even love—it's the kind of fundamental reorientation of priorities that only happens when someone becomes essential to your understanding of yourself.
"Callum," I start, but he shakes his head.
"You don't have to say anything," he says. "I just wanted you to know where I stand."
Instead of responding with words, I move closer to him, close enough that I can see the flecks of green in his dark eyes, close enough to count the faint freckles across his cheekbones that I'd forgotten about until this moment.
"Can I tell you something?" I ask.
"Anything."
"I've never felt as safe as I do here. With you. With all of you." I pause, searching for the right words. "It's not just physicalsafety, though that's part of it. It's the safety to be myself without constantly calculating how every word and action will be received."
His expression softens at my admission, and when he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture is infinitely gentle.
"You never have to be anything other than exactly who you are," he says. "Not with us. Not ever."
