They remained beside the stockade while the barn settled around them.
The motor ticked softly as it cooled. Bryce’s arm rested around Elara’s waist. Her legs were still unreliable, her skin warm against him.
“The floor.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t want just plain concrete.”
“We could colour it.”
“That will be rough though. And hard to clean.”
“We could tile it.”
“No way. I don’t want tiles. What about epoxy?”
“That’s easy to clean. Could look nice.”
Elara nodded, still looking down at the dirt.
Bryce kissed the top of her head, then walked over to the workbench.
“What are you doing?”
“Something I’ve been working on.”
He opened a drawer and took out a short steel rod.
Elara followed him. She could see the metal circle formed at one end.
“You made a brand?”
“Our maker’s mark.”
“It looks like a brand.”
“Can’t it be both?”
Bryce picked up the torch and heated the end. Elara watched the steel slowly change colour before he carried it back to the stockade and crouched beside one of the timber rails.
He pressed it into the wood.
The hiss was immediate. Smoke curled around his hand and the sharp smell of scorched hardwood spread through the barn.
Bryce lifted it away.
Elara crouched beside him. Once the timber had cooled enough, she ran her thumb across the dark mark.
“Si. What’s it mean?”
“Silicon. The circle is oxygen. Silicon dioxide. That’s as close as I could get to obsidian.”
She looked at him.
“Very clever. And a little nerdy.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I love it.”
Her thumb passed over it again.
“Everything?”
“Everything we make.”
“The saddle stand?”
Bryce nodded.
“The bench?”
“Yep.”
Elara smiled. “You’re going to spend all afternoon branding things.”
“Probably.”
Elara straightened and looked around the barn.
“If we keep making things, we’re going to run out of room.”
“We already have.”
“That sounds like your fault.”
Bryce stood. “How?”
“You build things.”
“You ask for them.”
“Not all of them.”
“Most.”
She laughed and started walking.
Bryce glanced towards the stage. “The wedding proved we can clear most of it when we need to.”
“After moving everything somewhere else.”
“Exactly.”
“So we need somewhere else.”
“Storage.”
Elara stopped beside one of the bays and looked into it. “Could close one off.”
Bryce joined her, following where she pointed.
“Maybe.”
“Wall across there.”
“That would make it pretty tight.”
She moved her hand farther back. “There?”
“Better.”
“What about a curtain instead?”
Bryce looked at the opening.
“Heavy one,” she said. “Something you can pull across when you want privacy.”
“And tie back when you don’t.”
“Exactly.”
He nodded. “Could work.”
They moved on.
“What about somewhere to change?” Bryce asked.
Elara looked at him. “We have a house.”
“I remember.”
“Good.”
“But at the wedding everyone dumped jackets, bags and shoes wherever they found space.”
“That annoyed you, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “A bench. Somewhere to hang clothes.”
“Maybe some storage.”
“And a mirror.”
Bryce looked at her.
“What?”
“A big one?”
“Obviously.”
He shook his head.
A little farther on, Bryce stopped and put his hand against one of the walls.
“Could put seats along some of these.”
“They’d be in the way.”
“Not if they folded up.”
He lowered his hand, showing roughly where the seat would sit.
Elara moved it down.
“Too high.”
“You haven’t sat on it.”
“Neither have you.”
Bryce pulled the tape measure from his pocket.
She laughed. “Of course.”
“What?”
“You carry a tape measure while having sex.”
“I wasn’t having sex when I put my jeans on.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
He measured where she had indicated.
Elara waited.
Bryce let the tape retract.
“Well?”
“Nothing.”
“I was right.”
“About what?”
She grinned and kept walking.
Elara stopped again a few minutes later.
“What about we polish it?”
Bryce looked at her.
“The concrete.”
He glanced down the length of the barn.
“I like that.”
“So do I.”
She kept walking until she reached the next idea.
“Bar.”
Bryce looked at her. “We don’t need a bar.”
“We absolutely need a bar.”
“We have a kitchen.”
“At the house.”
“Which is less than a hundred metres away.”
“And nobody is walking back there every time they want a drink.”
“They can bring an esky.”
Elara stared at him.
“An esky.”
“It works.”
“So does a fridge.”
“It costs less.”
She stepped into Bay Three and ran her hand along the half wall.
“Counter here.”
Bryce looked at it. “You’ll lose half the bay.”
“Not if it’s narrow.”
“Then everyone will knock their drinks off.”
“So make it wider.”
“You just said narrow.”
“You’re the builder. Work it out.”
Bryce shook his head.
“Fridge underneath,” she continued. “Shelves behind.”
“We’re building a pub now.”
“A bar.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She dragged the toe of her boot through the dirt, marking a rough line.
“There.”
“Too deep.”
Elara scraped another line closer to the wall.
“There.”
Bryce crouched and looked at it.
“Maybe.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Maybe?”
“That isn’t yes.”
“It isn’t no.”
He pulled the tape measure out again.
Elara folded her arms while he checked the distance between the posts.
“Well?”
“It would fit.”
“Bay Three.”
“We’ll see.”
She turned and leaned forward over the half wall.
Her shirt rode higher over her waist.
Bryce stopped putting the tape away.
Elara looked back over her shoulder.
“There. First use for the bar.”
“That isn’t a bar.”
“Not yet.”
“You’re leaning over a stable wall.”
“And you’re still arguing.”
She shifted her hips.
Bryce’s gaze dropped.
“Bay Three.”
“Elara.”
“What?”
“We just finished.”
“You look recovered.”
“I’m not.”
She pushed back slightly. “Want me to check?”
Bryce laughed.
“For now.”
“That sounds temporary.”
“It is.”
Elara straightened.
“Workbench.”
“The plans?”
“If you’re going to keep arguing.”
Bryce headed for it.
“I’m not drawing a bar.”
“We’ll see.”
Bryce cleared enough room to unroll a fresh sheet of paper and weighted one corner.
Elara stood beside him while he drew the outside of the barn.
“You’re making it too neat.”
“I’ve drawn four lines.”
“Very neat lines.”
Bryce ignored her.
He marked what was already there rather than deciding what came next.
Elara leaned over his shoulder.
“Put the bar in.”
“No.”
“You measured it.”
“I measured the space.”
“For the bar.”
“For the argument.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does to me.”
He sketched another line.
“What about the curtains?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“The changing area?”
“Don’t know.”
“Storage?”
Bryce looked at her. “Do you want to draw this?”
“Yes.”
He offered her the pencil.
Elara took it, looked at the paper, then drew a rough square off to one side.
“What’s that?”
“No idea yet.”
Bryce laughed.
She handed the pencil back.
“That’s more like it.”
“What is?”
“A plan that doesn’t pretend we know what we’re doing.”
Bryce bent over the paper again.
Elara watched him for perhaps thirty seconds.
Then she stepped between him and the workbench.
“You’re blocking it.”
“You’re ignoring me.”
“I’m drawing.”
“You’ve drawn another rectangle.”
“It’s a good rectangle.”
She took the pencil from his hand and threw it behind her. It struck the dirt and rolled beneath the bench.
Bryce watched it disappear.
“Elara.”
“You can draw later.”
“We came over here to draw.”
“You came over here to draw.”
She backed into the workbench and lifted herself onto it, crushing the clean paper beneath her thighs.
Bryce stared.
“You’re sitting on the floor plan.”
“There’s hardly anything on it.”
“That isn’t the point.”
Elara leaned back on her palms and opened her knees.
Her jeans were still loose from the stockade.
Bryce’s expression changed.
“I told you I could persuade you.”
“You haven’t yet.”
She reached for his shirt.
“Come closer and say that.”
Bryce stepped between her legs.
Elara reached for the front of his shirt, but Bryce caught both wrists in one hand and pressed them back against the workbench.
“You wanted the bar.”
“I still want the bar.”
“Timber top.”
“Yes.”
“Fridge underneath.”
“Yes.”
“Foot rail.”
“Yes.”
“A low shelf for someone kneeling.”
Elara smiled. “Now you’re listening.”
His free hand moved between her thighs.
Her smile vanished.
Bryce touched her without hurry, spreading the wetness already there and pressing into places the machine had left raw with sensitivity.
Elara’s wrists twisted against his grip.
“You’re soaked.”
“That’s your fault.”
“Most things are.”
He pushed two fingers inside her, then three.
Elara’s breath caught.
The workbench creaked beneath her as she shifted forward, asking for more without saying it. Bryce knew the movement. He pushed deeper.
Her hands strained against his.
“Let go.”
“No.”
“I need to hold on.”
“You are holding on.”
“To you.”
“You’ll have me when I decide.”
She glared at him.
Bryce curled his fingers.
The glare broke into a moan.
He released her wrists only when her arms began shaking. Elara caught the edge of the bench, knuckles whitening as his hand worked deeper.
He paused long enough to watch her.
Elara opened her eyes.
“Don’t stop.”
He pushed deeper.
Her head dropped back. She could hear the wet movement of his hand, the roughness of his breathing and the faint crackle of the paper beneath her.
Bryce’s other hand closed around her throat.
Not squeezing yet.
Only holding.
Elara met his eyes.
His thumb shifted against her skin.
The pressure increased slowly.
“More,” she whispered.
Bryce watched her face.
His grip tightened.
Elara’s pulse beat hard beneath his fingers. Her breath shortened. Her hips moved helplessly against his hand as he pressed deeper and opened her farther.
Bryce eased his grip enough to let her draw breath.
She gasped.
“Don’t.”
He tightened again.
Elara’s body arched.
The orgasm broke through her with almost no warning. Her thighs closed around Bryce’s arm, her body shaking as fluid spilled across his wrist, the workbench and the paper beneath her.
Bryce did not stop.
He released her throat enough for air, but his hand remained inside her, carrying her through the contractions until she became too sensitive to hold still.
“Bryce.”
He watched her.
Then pushed again.
Elara cried out, one hand catching his forearm.
Her body fought the depth while her hips kept pulling him closer. Bryce held her open, his movements steady and deliberate until the second wave began building beneath the first.
Her voice failed before her body did.
Bryce loosened his grip at her throat.
Her mouth remained open. Eyes unfocused. Muscles tightening around his hand.
Still pulling him deeper.
He gave her what she was asking for.
The next orgasm tore through her hard enough to drive her shoulders against the bench. More fluid spilled beneath her, soaking the paper before Bryce had drawn more than the outline of the barn.
This time, when her hand closed hard around his wrist, he stopped.
Bryce withdrew slowly and kept one hand on her waist until her breathing returned.
Elara lay across the workbench, jeans around her thighs, hair tangled beneath her shoulders and the sheet of paper ruined beneath her.
Bryce looked down at it.
A wet patch spread across the centre.
“That was the floor plan.”
“It still is.”
“You haven’t drawn anything.”
“Then you know where the drain goes.”
He laughed once and wiped his hand on a rag from the bench.
Elara sat up slowly, caught his wrist and pulled him back between her knees.
“We’re not finished.”
“You are.”
“With your hand.”
Bryce looked at her.
Elara reached for his belt.
He let her open it, but when she tried to free him, he caught her hand and turned her toward the bench instead.
The paper crackled beneath her palms.
Bryce pushed her shirt upward and ran one hand along her spine. His fingers reached the back of her neck and settled there.
Elara spread her legs wider.
He entered her slowly at first, giving her body time after everything his hand had already done.
She pushed back.
Bryce held her still.
“Wait.”
“I’ve waited long enough.”
“You’ve spent most of the last hour coming.”
“Not the same thing.”
He buried himself fully inside her.
Elara’s fingers curled against the paper.
There were no measured strokes. No numbered speeds. No machine deciding the rhythm.
Bryce moved according to her body and his own restraint. Slow until she demanded harder. Harder until the workbench began knocking against the wall. His hand remained at the back of her neck, controlling her position while the other held her hip.
Elara tried to turn toward him.
He kept her facing the bench.
“Draw the bar,” she gasped.
“Later.”
“Bay Three.”
“Fine.”
She laughed breathlessly.
Bryce drove into her harder.
The laugh became a cry.
His hand moved from the back of her neck to her throat, drawing her upright against him. Elara reached behind and gripped his hip as he continued moving inside her.
The pressure at her throat returned.
Her body responded instantly.
Bryce felt it.
The tightening around him.
The loss of rhythm in her breathing.
The way her knees weakened against the bench.
He pushed her forward again before she lost the strength to hold herself upright.
Elara came across the plans, voice breaking around his name. Bryce followed soon after, his body folding over hers as he emptied himself inside her.
For several moments, neither moved.
The barn smelled of dust, leather, sweat and sex. The sheet of paper beneath Elara had become wrinkled and damp.
Eventually, he withdrew and helped her sit.
Elara looked down.
“The plan’s ruined.”
Bryce retrieved the pencil from beneath the bench.
“No.”
He flattened the least damaged corner.
“You’re still using that?”
“It’s the first one.”
“It’s covered in me.”
“That makes it accurate.”
She laughed.
Bryce redrew the few lines she had crushed and added several more, stopping occasionally while they argued over what belonged where.
Somewhere to change.
Somewhere to put things away.
Curtains where they might want privacy.
A few places to sit without filling the barn with furniture.
Elara pointed at the page.
“The bar.”
Bryce wrote BAR? beside Bay Three.
She reached for the pencil.
He moved it away.
“Lose the question mark.”
“No.”
“Bryce.”
“No.”
Elara laughed.
He put the pencil down before the rough sketch became anything more than that.
“Enough?”
“For now.”
She slid down from the workbench and pulled up her jeans.
Bryce picked up the plan.
Elara pointed back towards the stockade.
“You still have things to brand.”
“I know.”
“All of them.”
Bryce folded the paper.
“Bar first,” she said.
“Floor.”
“Bar.”
He looked at her.
“Bay Three.”
She walked away smiling.