Chapter 15: Scene 1
The fire had burned to ash, and the pale, clear light of morning was filtering through the pine boughs outside the cottage windows. Kenny woke to the solid warmth of Buck’s chest against his back, an arm draped heavily over his waist. He could feel the steady, slow beat of Buck’s heart through his own spine. For a long moment, he just lay there, cataloging the sensations: the unfamiliar weight of another person in the bed, the smell of sleep and woodsmoke, the absolute quiet.
Buck stirred, his arm tightening reflexively before he seemed to wake fully. He nuzzled the back of Kenny’s neck, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Morning.”
“Morning.” Kenny’s own voice was soft, rusted with disuse.
They didn’t move. The world outside seemed to hold its breath. Finally, Buck sighed, a contented sound, and pressed a kiss to Kenny’s shoulder blade through the soft cotton of the t-shirt. “I have a shift at ten. You open the store at nine.”
The spell wasn’t broken, but it was gently nudged. The practicalities of the day intruded. Kenny nodded, the movement small against the pillow. “I should go home first. Change.”
“You can borrow something of mine. Again.” Buck’s smile was audible.
The process of getting up, of moving from the tangled warmth of the sheets into the chilly cottage air, felt monumental. But they did it. Kenny used Buck’s toothbrush, a startling intimacy that made his stomach flip. He pulled on a pair of Buck’s sweatpants, cinching the drawstring tight, and another soft, well-worn t-shirt. He looked like he’d been thoroughly rumpled, which, he supposed, he had.
Buck moved around the small kitchen with a focused efficiency, making strong coffee and scrambling eggs. They ate at the counter, shoulders touching, speaking in hushed tones about nothing—the weather, the peculiar groan the water heater made. It was domestic. It was surreal.
“I’ll drive you,” Buck said, rinsing the plates.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
The ride into town was sun-drenched and quiet. Buck reached across the console, his hand finding Kenny’s and lacing their fingers together. He didn’t let go, not even to shift gears, driving one-handed with a casual confidence that made Kenny’s heart stutter. Main Street was coming to life: the bakery door propped open, the barber sweeping his front step, old Mr. Hendrix walking his terrier.
Buck pulled the truck to a smooth stop right in front of The Rusty Page. The ‘OPEN’ sign wasn’t lit yet; Maggie was probably in the back, starting the coffee maker.
Kenny unbuckled his seatbelt, the click loud in the cab. “Thanks for the ride. And the… everything.”
“Anytime,” Buck said, his voice low. Then, before Kenny could open his door, Buck was out of the truck, circling the hood. He pulled open the passenger door, offering a hand.
Kenny took it, sliding out, feeling absurdly and wonderfully courted. He stood on the sidewalk, looking up at Buck, who was backlit by the morning sun, a halo of gold in his messy hair.
Buck didn’t say a word. He just cupped Kenny’s face in his hands, his thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. His eyes were terribly blue and utterly serious. He leaned in and kissed him, right there on the sun-washed sidewalk. It wasn’t a deep kiss, but it was firm and lingering, a possessive, gentle stamp. A promise. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against Kenny’s for a breath. “Have a good day, Kenny.”
Then he was back in the truck, giving a short, soft beep of the horn as he pulled away.
Kenny stood rooted to the spot, the taste of Buck’s coffee and his own dizzy happiness on his lips. He was only vaguely aware of the bakery deliveryman whistling as he passed, or the curtain twitching in the antique shop across the street.
The bell above the bookstore door jangled with unusual violence as he pushed it open, his face surely flushed, wearing another man’s clothes.
Maggie stood behind the counter, her half-moon glasses perched on her nose, a dusting cloth frozen in mid-swipe over a display of local poetry. She didn’t say a word. She just looked at him, her eyes traveling from his obviously borrowed, too-large clothes, to his undoubtedly kissed mouth, then out the window to the empty space where Buck’s truck had been.
A slow, profound smile spread across her face, etching a map of happy wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
“Well,” she said, the single word dripping with decades of withheld gossip and sheer delight.
Kenny felt the blush ignite from his chest to his hairline. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say a thing!” she protested, innocence itself. She resumed dusting with exaggerated care. “Just ‘well’. It’s a common word. A versatile word. As in, ‘well, well, well’. Or ‘all’s well that ends well’. Or ‘deep well’.” She peeked at him over her glasses. “You look like you fell into a deep well of something this morning, sweetheart. And somehow managed to climb out wearing different clothes.”
“Maggie,” he groaned, hiding his face in his hands, though he was laughing.
She came around the counter, taking his wrists and pulling his hands down. Her expression softened from teasing to something unbearably fond. She patted his cheek, the same spot Buck had kissed minutes before. “Good for you,” she said, her voice quiet and sincere. “Good for both of you. Now, go put the coffee on. You’re floating two inches off the ground, and we need to anchor you with caffeine before the first customer comes in and you accidentally sell them the entire Brontë section for a dollar.”
He fled to the back room, her warm, knowing laughter following him like a blessing. The familiar scent of books and cinnamon wrapped around him, mingling with the memory of pine and woodsmoke that still clung to Buck’s shirt. For the first time since he’d arrived in this quiet town, every piece of his life, old and new, felt like it was exactly where it belonged.