Chapter 5: Sawdust and Sketches
The shop was exactly as Leo had imagined, yet utterly surprising in its presence. It wasn’t a garage or a shed, but a proper, high-ceilinged industrial space in a converted brick factory. Sunlight streamed through massive, dirt-speckled windows, cutting through air thick with the fragrant dust of worked wood. The hum of machinery was a physical thing, a vibration felt in the teeth. The scent was overwhelming: oak, cedar, linseed oil, and the sharp, clean smell of cut metal.
Marcus didn’t say a word, just led him inside with a hand at the small of his back, a gesture that felt both protective and possessive.
He pointed to a worn brown leather couch shoved against a wall, its surface lightly dusted with a fine, blond powder. “Command center,” he said, his voice raised slightly over the background whir.“Outlets nearby. Bathroom’s through that door. Don’t touch anything that looks sharp, spins, or could crush your fingers.”
Then he was gone, absorbed into the rhythm of the space. He walked over to a massive, half-assembled slab of walnut—the dining table, Leo guessed—and ran a broad hand over its surface. He flipped a switch on a large machine, and a new, more insistent sound filled the air, a rhythmic, grinding roar. Marcus fed a rough board into it, his entire body bracing against the force, muscles in his forearms and back corded with the effort. Sawdust, warm and golden, sprayed from the other side like a plume of sawed sunshine.
Leo unpacked his sketchpad, feeling like a visitor in a church of pure, utilitarian creation. He curled into the corner of the couch, tucking his feet beneath him. For a long time, he just watched.
He watched the way Marcus’s brow furrowed in concentration, a single line of sweat tracing a path down his temple. The way he would pause, run his fingers over a seam, his touch impossibly gentle for such rough hands. He’d squint, measure twice with a faded yellow tape, his lips moving silently with numbers. This was Marcus without his walls, without the performative gruffness. This was Marcus in his element, and it was the most captivating thing Leo had ever seen.His pencil began to move almost of its own accord. He didn’t plan a composition; he simply recorded details.The powerful line of Marcus’s shoulders as he planed. The way his faded t-shirt clung to the sweat on the small of his back. The focused intensity in his down-turned eyes. Leo’s lines were quick, confident, capturing not just likeness but weight, presence, the sheer physicality of the man at work.
The machine’s whine dropped to a low growl, then silence. Marcus wiped his hands on a rag, grabbed a bottle of water, and took a long drink, his throat working. He turned, his gaze finding Leo immediately, as if he’d known exactly where he was the entire time.
“Getting anything done over there, or just spying?” he called, a faint smirk on his lips.
“A little of both,” Leo admitted, not looking up from his page, his pencil shading the curve of a bicep.Marcus walked over, his work boots thumping softly on the concrete floor. He stood behind the couch, looking down over Leo’s shoulder. Leo felt the heat of him, smelled the fresh-cut wood and clean sweat.He didn’t hide the drawing.Marcus’s breathing changed. The soft, watching silence deepened. Leo finished a final line, the shadow beneath a clenched jaw, and stopped.For a full minute, Marcus said nothing. He just stared at the page, at the image of himself rendered in soft graphite. It wasn’t a flattering portrait; it was a true one. It showed the strain in his neck, the dirt under his nails, the tired set of his mouth. But it also showed the care in his eyes, the strength in his hands, the sacred focus.“Christ,” Marcus breathed, the word barely audible.
“Is it okay?” Leo asked, suddenly nervous.
Marcus reached down, his fingers, still gritty with sawdust, gently lifting Leo’s chin.He didn’t answer with words. He bent and kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of well water and effort. It was a kiss of acknowledgment, of being seen in a way no one had ever seen him before.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, the pupils swallowing the warm brown.“You make me look like I matter,” he said, his voice rough.
“You do matter.”
Something in Marcus seemed to fracture, a final, stubborn barrier melting in the heat of that simple statement. He took the sketchpad from Leo’s hands and placed it carefully on the couch.Then he took Leo’s hands and pulled him to his feet.
He backed Leo gently until the backs of his thighs met the solid edge of the heavy workbench. Tools rattled softly.The smell of oil and wood was everywhere. Marcus caged him in, hands flat on the bench on either side of Leo’s hips, leaning in so their foreheads touched.
“Tell me what you need,” Marcus murmured, a repeat of the morning’s question, but now layered with a different, thicker tension.“You,” Leo whispered. “Just you.”
A low sound rumbled in Marcus’s chest. He captured Leo’s mouth again, this kiss hotter, hungrier. His hands left the bench and went to the button of Leo’s jeans, popping it open with a deft flick.The denim was pushed down, just enough. Marcus’s own belt buckle was cold against Leo’s stomach, a sharp contrast to the searing heat of his hands.There was no finesse, no slow undressing. It was urgent and raw.Marcus spat into his palm, slicked himself, and pressed forward. Leo gasped, arching back over the bench, his fingers scrambling for purchase against the smooth, finished wood. The entry was a slow, burning stretch that made Leo see stars behind his clenched eyelids.
“Okay?” Marcus growled, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.“Green,” Leo choked out. “Always green for you.”
That broke Marcus’s control. He drove in to the hilt, a single, devastating stroke that knocked the air from Leo’s lungs. The workbench groaned in protest, a hollow, wooden sound that harmonized with Leo’s cry.
Marcus set a pace that was relentless, each thrust jarring Leo against the unyielding edge of the bench. It was claiming, possessive, a physical manifestation of all the words Marcus couldn’t say. Leo clung to him, nails digging into the hard muscle of Marcus’s shoulders, his own pleasure coiling tight and desperate. The world narrowed to the smell of sawdust, the sound of skin meeting skin, the fierce, beautiful pain-pleasure of being filled so completely.
“Look at me,” Marcus commanded, his voice ragged.Leo forced his eyes open, meeting Marcus’s blazing gaze. In that look, he saw everything: the fear, the need, the burgeoning, terrifying love.It tipped him over the edge. His climax tore through him, silent for a breathtaking second before a broken sob escaped. Marcus followed seconds after, his big body shuddering, a guttural moan buried in the curve of Leo’s neck.They slumped together over the bench, panting, glued together by sweat and spent desire. The shop was silent save for their ragged breathing. Slowly, Marcus softened inside him, but he didn’t pull away.He simply turned his head and pressed a kiss to Leo’s damp temple.
After a long moment, he gently disentangled them. He pulled Leo’s jeans back up, his fingers surprisingly tender as he did up the button. Then he took a clean, heavy canvas apron from a hook and shook it out. He draped it over Leo’s shoulders, tying the strings snugly at the back and waist, enveloping him in the smell of Marcus’s work.
He cupped Leo’s face, his thumbs brushing over the high bones of his cheeks. “This is your place now, too,” he said, his voice quiet but absolute.“Anytime. Always.”
Leo looked around the sun-dappled, dusty cathedral, then back at the man who had built a sanctuary within it.He didn’t feel like a visitor anymore. He felt, for the first time, like he was home. He leaned into Marcus’s touch and nodded, knowing no words were needed, and that all the important ones had already been said.