Chapter 23: The Morning Text
The first sensation was the smell. Not the familiar lavender of her own pillowcase, but something earthier, mingled with a ghost of butter and salt. Sawdust and popcorn. Lily-Anne’s eyes fluttered open to the soft, yellow light of her own bedroom. She was lying on top of her duvet, still in the floral sundress from the night before, now hopelessly wrinkled. One strap had slipped down her shoulder.
Memory returned in a warm, slow wave. The pillows. The movie. The safety of his side. The feeling of being carried.
She’d been carried.
Heat flooded her cheeks as she pushed herself up on her elbows. Button sat propped against her headboard, his lopsided gaze meeting hers. She pulled him into a tight, immediate hug, burying her face in his fur. He smelled like home, like her laundry soap, a counterpoint to the new, lingering scent on her clothes.
Her phone glowed on the nightstand. A notification.
With a hesitant reach, she fetched it. A text from an unknown number, saved last night with a simple ‘M.’ Her thumb hovered for a second before tapping.
Morning, sleepyhead. You left your bunny sock in my truck. I’ll bring it to the workshop later.
She read it. Then read it again, her mind snagging on the careful casualness of ‘sleepyhead,’ on the mention of the secret talisman he’d somehow discovered and now named so simply. Your bunny sock. He’d found it. He knew.
Her first instinct was a sharp curl of embarrassment, a want to hide. It was followed by something else, something softer and more terrifying: a flutter of pleasure. He’d noticed. He hadn’t mocked. He was keeping it safe.
She typed a reply, fingers clumsy. Thank you for last night. It was really nice.
She stared at the words. They seemed so small, so insufficient for the profound peace she’d felt falling asleep against him. But they were true. She sent it before the critic in her head could launch a full-scale edit.
The reply came almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting. You’re welcome. Got a busy morning fitting dovetails. Come by the shop after one if you want. We can fix that sock situation. And maybe work on a daisy.
She grinned into Button’s fur. The daisy. He remembered. Her heart performed a complicated, joyous rhythm against her ribs. Fear was there too, a familiar background hum—fear of expectations, of misunderstanding, of this delicate thing fracturing. But the dominant note was a bright, yearning curiosity.
Okay, she typed back. After one.
The entire morning felt like walking through a different, lighter version of her life. She showered, washing away the last traces of club air, and chose her clothes with a new kind of intention: soft, faded jeans and a pale green sweater with a tiny, embroidered bee on the collar. It felt like her, but a braver version.
At the bookstore, she shelved a collection of 19th-century botanical prints, her mind elsewhere. Mr. Higgins, the elderly owner, peered at her over his spectacles. “You’ve got a spring in your step, Lily-Anne. Win the lottery?”
“Just a nice day,” she said, smiling at a drawing of a wood anemone.
“Hmmph. Must be more than that. You’re humming.”
She hadn’t realized she was.
At twelve-thirty, her nerves began to spark. She ate half a turkey sandwich at the tiny backroom sink, her appetite gone. What was the protocol? Was she visiting a friend? Was this a date? Was it a… a little visiting her… her Daddy? The word, even in her private thoughts, felt too bold, too claimed. But it shimmered there, a possibility.
She drove across town, the city shifting from quaint brick storefronts to a neighborhood of old warehouses and auto shops. She found the address: a converted warehouse with a simple, hand-painted sign that read “HALE CUSTOM WOODWORK” in no-nonsense block letters.
The oversized roll-up door was open to the mild afternoon. The scent that wafted out was overwhelming and wonderful—rich, resiny pine, sharp oak, the tang of varnish and metal. The sound of a power saw whined to a stop as she parked.
Peering inside, she saw a world of organized chaos. Lumber was stacked like massive playing cards against one wall. The floor, where it was visible, was dusted with a fine, golden powder. Tools hung in precise outlines on a giant pegboard. And in the center, under a pool of light from a high window, stood Marcus.
He was bent over a large worktable, his focus absolute on a complex joint he was clamping. A pencil was tucked behind his ear. He wore a pair of faded jeans speckled with paint and sawdust, and a tight black t-shirt that stretched across the muscles of his back and shoulders as he tightened the vise. He looked capable. Rooted. He looked like he belonged exactly there.
She must have made a sound, or he sensed her presence, because he turned. His face, serious in concentration, softened into a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Hey, you,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet aftermath of the saw. He wiped his hands on a rag. “Perfect timing. I was just about to take a break from fighting with this stubborn piece of cherry.”
She stepped inside, the concrete floor cool under her thin sneakers. “It’s… incredible in here,” she said, her voice small against the high ceilings.
“It’s a mess.” He followed her gaze around the shop, seeing it through her eyes. “But it’s my mess. Here.” He walked over to a small, clean desk tucked in the corner. On it sat a familiar, slightly crumpled white sock with a faded pink nose. Beside it was a small, perfect wooden daisy, its petals smooth and rounded, waiting on a square of sandpaper.
He picked up the sock and offered it to her. “Think this belongs to you.”
She took it, the soft cotton warm from the sun through the window. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” He nodded to the daisy. “That one’s being shy. Needs a bit more sanding before it’s ready for paint. Thought you might want to help.”
A quiet joy bubbled up inside her. It was an offering, an invitation with no pressure. She could just… be here. In this space that was so fundamentally him.
“I’d love to,” she said.
He dragged a second stool over to the desk and she sat, picking up the daisy. Its contours were already beautiful, the grain of the pale wood swirling like a fingerprint. She picked up a piece of fine-grit sandpaper, her movements tentative at first.
For a while, the only sounds were the gentle whisper of sanding, the distant hum of a refrigerator, and the occasional rustle as Marcus moved a board. The anxiety that had crackled in her chest began to settle, smoothed away by the rhythmic, tactile work.
“It didn’t scare you?” she asked quietly, not looking up from the petal under her fingertips.
“What didn’t?”
“Finding that.” She nodded to the sock, now tucked safely into her cardigan pocket.
He leaned back against the worktable, crossing his arms. He considered the question. “No. It didn’t scare me. It felt… honest.” He paused. “Did it scare you? That I found it?”
“A little,” she admitted, brushing wood dust from the curve of the daisy. “It feels very… exposed.”
“I know the feeling.” His tone was even, factual. “Bringing someone into your workshop—where you make the things that matter—that’s exposing, too.”
She looked up at him then, saw the quiet sincerity in his tired eyes. This was a trade. A shared vulnerability. The understanding settled into her bones, warmer and more solid than the sunlight on her back.
“So,” he said, pushing off the table. His voice lightened, shifting the mood. “You’ve seen my domain. Ready for the official tour? I’ve got a stack of oak over here that’s practically singing. And something I think you’ll appreciate.”
He led her to a locked cabinet at the back. He turned a key and opened the double doors.
Inside were toys. Not the brightly colored plastic from a store, but exquisite, handmade things. A rocking horse with a gentle, flowing mane. A dollhouse with detailed clapboard siding and real glazed windows. A set of building blocks, each one a different geometric shape, sanded to a satin finish.
“Oh,” she breathed, her hand coming up to her mouth. They were achingly beautiful. Full of love and patience.
“Perks of the job,” he said, his pride muted but clear. “I get to make magic sometimes.”
“It’s all magic,” she whispered.
He looked at her, at the awe on her face, and something in his expression deepened. He closed the cabinet doors slowly. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “the best magic is the quiet kind. The kind that shows up, even when she’s scared, and sands a daisy smooth.”
Her heart felt too big for her chest. She was holding a wooden flower and a bunny’s sock, standing in a cathedral of sawdust and creation, and she had never felt more seen.
The buzz of his phone on the worktable broke the moment. He glanced at it. “Client’s early.” He sounded genuinely regretful. “I have to wrap this up.”
“Of course,” she said quickly, setting the daisy down. “I should get back too.”
“Keep sanding that tonight,” he said, nodding to the daisy in her hand. “If you want.”
“I will.”
They walked to the open door. The afternoon light had mellowed, painting the gravel outside in gold.
“Thank you for the tour,” she said, stepping out.
“Anytime, Lily-Anne.” He stood in the frame, a solid silhouette against the bright interior. “Drive safe.”
She was almost to her car when he called out.
“Hey.”
She turned.
“Next Friday. They’re doing a coloring contest at the club. Big box of crayons, the whole deal.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “If you’re not busy.”
The fear tried to rise. A contest meant performance, judgment. But she looked at the daisy in her hand, felt the sock in her pocket, and met his steady gaze.
“I’d like that,” she said.
His smile was a quick, real thing. “Good. I’ll save you a spot at the little table.”
She got in her car, the wooden daisy held carefully in her lap. In her rearview mirror, she watched him turn and walk back into his world of wood and light, not looking back. She didn’t need him to. The thread between them felt strong, humming with a promise she was just beginning to believe she could hold.