Every brush of skin sends a pulse through me.
He helps without a word, steady and close, like he's afraid any sudden movement might unravel whatever fragile thing has started to form between us.
By the time we're free, we're breathless. Flushed. Neither of us looks at the other.
We spend the next hour wrangling doves like a strangely choreographed team. Silent, focused, in sync. We move together without tripping over words or rules. And somewhere in the middle of feathers and glitter, the awkwardness dissolves.
When the last dove flutters into the re-secured cage, I let out a long, uneven breath.
The barn is a disaster.
Glitter clings to everything. Props are scattered, ribbon drapes from the rafters like party streamers after a storm.
But somehow, the quiet between us doesn't feel strained anymore.
"Thank you," I say, turning to him. "I couldn't have … I mean, thanks."
He shrugs. "Just doing my part to preserve the integrity of your workspace."
I raise a brow.
"My productivity is deeply affected by rogue livestock," he adds.
I almost smile. "Livestock?"
"You called them romantic vessels. I'm choosing livestock."
I bend to scoop up a spilled tin of glitter. He reaches at the same time.
Our fingers brush.
We both freeze.
The contact is brief, but it's enough to stir up everything again. The kiss might've broken a rule. But getting tangled in that net together? It cracked the foundation. And standing here, surrounded by glitter and feathers and far too many emotions, I'm starting to wonder if I want to put any of it back together.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MASON
The day after the Dove Disaster, a new treaty is brokered in The Weathered Barn, written in the unspoken language of shared coffee.
I come downstairs to find Maddy there, the space scrubbed clean of every stray feather and all but the most stubborn specks of glitter. Two mugs of rich coffee sit on the kitchenette counter, steam curling up. A quiet offering. She doesn’t say anything as I take one, giving me a small, hesitant nod.
The brittle, awkward silence of the past few days is gone, replaced by tension that’s almost more dangerous. It’s a watchful stillness, a space alive with the energy of everything that happened in the net. We had been tangled together, and now, even apart, we’re still connected by invisible threads of awareness. What started as a line in the sand is now a memory we both step over.
I retreat to my loft, but the stillness up here feels different. It's no longer a refuge from her whirlwind. It's a vantage point. Every movement she makes below draws my attention. The scratch of her pen, the low hum of her laptop, the faint rustle of fabric as she moves between projects.
After the potluck performance and the avian uprising, pretending she's a temporary logistical issue is no longer a viable strategy.
Around mid-morning, she drags a large cardboard box into the center of the barn. My eyes narrow. I recognize the determined set of her jaw, the determined energy that precedes her most ambitious endeavors. A new project is being launched, and after yesterday, I feel a certain proprietary concern for the structural integrity of my work environment. She unboxes a black quadcopter drone, its propellers and frame appearing menacingly complex. I remember her mentioning a client who wanted an aerial banner drop during a mountain hiking proposal. An idea about "love that soars above earthly concerns."
I also remember her attitude about mastering the required skills for this new model. "How hard can it be to fly a remote-controlled aircraft in a straight line?" she had asked, her confidence that of someone who's flown before and isn't convinced gravity applies to her.
I lean forward, my elbows on my desk, and watch as she begins to find out. Her first attempt at liftoff is less of a soar and more of an angry wobble. The drone sputters a few feet into the air, tilts left in a lurching stumble, and clatters back to the floor with the grace of a dropped brick.
"Okay, so, a bit of a learning curve," she mutters, undeterred by what any rational person would consider a warning sign.
She spends the next hour like this, a cycle of tentative takeoffs, spastic jerks, and ungraceful landings. It's a testament to her will that she doesn't give up. I've heard the stories, like the time a drone's programmed message glitched and spelled out "HAIRY MOLE" instead of "MARRY ME."
