Dragonfly smirked. “Are you really just going to wait here the whole time until Helen’s out?”
He shrugged, scratching Dolly behind the ears. “What else would I do? Might takethe beastdown to the lake if she gets too squirmy.”
Just then, the meeting hall doors swung open, and a pack of children spilled out—whooping, barefoot, full of mischief and speed. Their shrieks echoed off the stone buildings as they tore through the square. The teacher for the next session slipped inside with barely a glance.
A moment later, Collin emerged from the hall, his book bag slung over one shoulder.
His eyes found hers immediately.
He smiled—wide and bright and real—and something inside her lifted like a banner caught by a sudden wind. She smiled back, cheeks flushing.
Then the bell rang, summoning the older students inside.
Sawdust and Stained Glass
The midday sun cast clean lines across the cottage’s pale stone walls, shadow pooling in the hollow joints of half-laid brick. Nic adjusted his stance, sweat dampening the back of his shirt, but he barely noticed. His world narrowed to the angle of his wrist, the weight of the trowel, the satisfying resistance of fresh mortar. There was something sacred in the rhythm—scoop, press, smooth—a kind of music that quieted everything else. Out here, with lime dust in his lungs and earth beneath his boots, he didn’t have to be clever or loud or liked. He just had to build.
Each brick was a decision. A promise. The arch would hold or it wouldn’t—and if it held, it would be because his hands made it so. There was honesty in that. Control. And on good days like this, when the shape came clean and the line held true, it felt almost like magic. He didn’t need to think about it anymore. That part, at least, he could do with his eyes closed.
“Too narrow,” he muttered, mostly to himself. He straightened, flicking his wrist toward the edge of the frame. “Pull the line a quarter inch left or the hearth’s going to lean like a drunk.”
A few feet off, Brandon gave him a nod and reached to adjust the guide string. But behind him, Martin, one of his father’s oldest crewmen, let out a low snort and didn’t budge from wherehe lounged near the timber stack, wiping his hands slow like he had all day.
“Careful now,” said Martin, voice just loud enough to carry. “Wouldn’t want junior here overworking himself into an early grave.”
A ripple of amusement passed between the crew. Nic didn’t glance up.
“Appreciate the concern,” he called back, trowel still moving. “But I plan to die surrounded by admirers and luxury furniture, not crushed by someone else’s laziness.”
Brandon chuckled under his breath. Martin didn’t.
“Books and sketches won’t teach you what your hands don’t know yet,” Martin added after a moment, quieter now, almost casual. “Some of us build with experience, not ink.”
Nic wiped the edge of the brick clean, careful and exact. He felt the heat crawl higher on the back of his neck. It wasn’t from the sun.
He didn’t respond right away. Just placed the next brick, pressed it down slow, and stood up, stretching out his shoulders with deliberate ease. When he turned, he gave Martin a smile too wide to be sincere.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “That’s why I listen to the ones who show up sober and don’t cut corners.”
A few laughs rippled through the men. Even Brandon bit his knuckle. Martin narrowed his eyes and looked away.
Nic turned back to the arch, jaw tight. His smile vanished the second no one could see it.
God, he hated this hill. Hated the view, the tidy little fences, the pruned hedges, the way the sun caught on everything like it had already been polished for someone else. This wasn’t building. This was putting up walls for people who never touched the floors they walked on.
