She released his hand and stepped toward the workbench, her fingers brushing the scarred wood until they found the plane. The metal was cold, gritty with dust that clung to her fingertips, and she traced the curve of its sole—a tool that had sat untouched for six years, waiting for hands that knew what to do with it. The weight was solid, unfamiliar, a thing that demanded purpose.
Adrian stepped beside her. His shoulder brushed hers, a contact that felt deliberate even if it wasn't, and he reached past her for the chisel lying on the workbench. His grip tightened around the handle—knuckles bleaching white, veins standing out against the olive of his skin. The blade caught the lamplight as he turned it over, and she saw the tremor run from his wrist to his elbow, a muscle memory of something he couldn't stop.
She set the plane down. The thud of wood against wood was loud in the silence, and then her hand found his—her fingers curling around the side of his hand, covering the white knuckles, pressing warmth into the cold metal between them. He didn't move. Didn't pull away. The chisel stayed in his grip, but the tension in his arm shifted, the tremor running up into his shoulder before it stilled.
Her thumb traced the ridge of his index finger, a small movement, almost unconscious. The dust on his skin transferred to hers, fine and gray, and she could feel the calluses at the base of his fingers—not from wood, but from weight rooms and weapons, a different kind of craft. "You're holding it like it might break," she said quietly.
His jaw worked. She felt the motion through his shoulder where it pressed against hers. "It might." The words came rough, scraped from somewhere deep. "He taught me with this one. Showed me how to sharpen it, how to feel the edge instead of look at it." He swallowed. "I was twelve. My hands were too small. He wrapped his around mine and guided the blade across the stone."
She didn't speak. The lamplight flickered—a moth batting against the bare bulb—and the shadows shifted across the workbench. She kept her hand on his, feeling the heat build between their palms, the metal of the chisel warming where they held it together.
"He said the secret was in the pressure," Adrian continued, his voice dropping lower. "Not how hard you push. How much you let the tool do the work." He turned the chisel slightly, and her hand turned with it, their fingers interlacing around the handle without either of them deciding to. "I never understood what he meant until I was older."
"And now?" she asked.
He was quiet for a long moment. The dust settled around them, motes catching the light and then disappearing into the shadows beyond the lamp's reach. The unfinished dovetail waited on the cabinet—a gap in the joint where the wood had been cut but never seated, never hammered home.
"I think I'm starting to," he said, and turned his hand over beneath hers so their palms pressed flat together, the chisel still between them, the metal warm now, shared, a thing that belonged to both of them.
She was quiet for a long moment, her thumb still tracing slow arcs across the side of his hand, the dust transferring from his skin to hers in fine gray smudges. The chisel lay between their palms, warm now, a third thing they were both holding. "And tomorrow?" she asked. "After we finish it. What then?"
His chest rose and fell against her shoulder—a breath she felt more than heard. The bare bulb hummed above them, and somewhere in the house a pipe groaned, settling into the night. "I don't know," he said, and the words came out without the armor she'd grown used to hearing in his voice. "I've never gotten this far."
She slid her hand from beneath his, letting the chisel rest in his palm alone, and he watched her fingers move to the cabinet's edge—tracing the gap where the dovetail had been cut but never seated, her fingertip following the grain of the unsanded wood. "Then let's find out together," she said. "That's allowed, isn't it? Not knowing."
He set the chisel down on the workbench, the metal clinking against the scarred wood, and turned to face her fully. The lamplight caught the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the shadow carved deep under his jaw. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who showed up three days ago."
Her mouth curved, not quite a smile. "You give a lot of answers for someone who said he didn't have any." She reached past him for the plane she'd set down earlier, the one with the dust still clinging to its sole. "Show me how to use this."
He blinked. "Now?"
"The cabinet's not going to finish itself, Adrian." She held the plane out to him, handle-first, her hazel eyes steady in the harsh light. "And I'd rather learn from you than figure it out alone."
He looked at the plane, then at her hand, then at her face. His throat worked once, a swallow that moved through his whole body. "It's not a violin. You can't push too hard or it'll gouge." He took the plane from her, his fingers brushing hers, and stepped around to the end of the cabinet where the unfinished panel waited. "You let the blade find the path. You guide it, but you don't force it."
She moved beside him, close enough that her sleeve brushed his arm when she leaned in to watch his hands. He adjusted his grip on the plane, set it against the edge of the panel, and pushed—a long, smooth stroke that peeled a thin curl of wood from the surface. The shaving curled and dropped, pale and fragrant, landing on the dusty floor in a perfect spiral.
He stopped and looked at her. "Your turn."
Her hand hovered over the plane, fingers spread like she was about to catch something fragile. The wood handle was warm where his palm had been, the metal sole still carrying the ghost of his stroke. She touched it—just her fingertips, testing the weight, the balance—and then wrapped her hand around it wrong, too high, her wrist bent at an awkward angle.
She adjusted. Didn't help. The plane felt foreign, a dead weight instead of the living extension it had been in his hand. She tried again, sliding her grip lower, and the handle shifted in her palm, the metal wobbling like it was about to fall. A sound escaped her—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "I think I need more hands," she muttered.
Adrian didn't move. She could feel him watching, the weight of his attention as tangible as the lamplight on her skin. He didn't step in, didn't take over. He waited. The dust motes swirled in the space between them, and somewhere above, a floorboard settled with a soft groan.
She tried again, this time sliding her thumb along the plane's side, curling her fingers around the handle's base. It felt less wrong but not right—her wrist still stiff, her arm too tight. She could feel the wrongness in her shoulder, the tension climbing up from the grip she couldn't find.
"You're fighting it." His voice came low, almost an echo of the empty room. "The wood will tell you where to put your hand if you let it."
She looked at him. His face was half in shadow, the lamplight catching only the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. "I don't speak wood," she said, and this time the laugh made it out, small and self-deprecating. "I speak strings."
A beat of silence. Then he stepped closer—not quite touching, but close enough that the heat of his body settled against her back like a second skin. His hand appeared beside hers on the plane, not taking it, just resting there, a reference point. "Try it flat," he said. "Your palm. Not your fingers. Let the handle sit in the cradle of your hand, not against your knuckles."
She shifted her grip, fitting her palm against the handle, the wood settling into the curve of her hand like it had been waiting for her to find it. Her wrist relaxed. Her arm dropped. The plane stopped feeling like something to fight and started feeling like something to hold. "Like this?"
His hand didn't move. His fingers stayed beside hers, close enough that the edges of their skin brushed when she breathed. "Closer. Now set the blade against the wood—don't push yet. Just let it rest."
She did. The plane's sole touched the edge of the panel where his shaving had curled away, and she felt the slight resistance of the grain, the way the wood pressed back. She didn't push. Just held it there, her breath shallow, the weight of him behind her a steady pressure she hadn't known she needed.
She pushed.
The plane bit into the wood with a resistance that traveled up her arm and into her shoulder—not smooth, not the way he'd made it look. The blade caught, stuttered, and she felt her wrist twist, the angle wrong, the plane digging instead of gliding. She stopped, her breath coming faster than the effort should have warranted.
"Again," he said, his voice low against her ear, close enough that she felt the word on her skin. "But lighter this time. Don't bury it. Let it ride the surface."
She reset the plane, her palm slick against the handle, and tried again. This time the blade caught less, skimming instead of gouging, and a thin curl of wood peeled away—uneven, too thick on one side, but a curl nonetheless. It dropped to the floor beside his perfect spiral, a clumsy cousin she couldn't help but stare at.
"I made a thing," she said, and the surprise in her own voice made him huff—a sound that might have been a laugh if he'd let it finish.
"You made a shaving," he corrected, but there was warmth in the words now, something that softened the edges of his voice. "Try again. Keep your wrist flat."
His hand found hers on the plane—not guiding, just resting, his palm covering her knuckles, his fingers settling between hers. The weight of him was deliberate now, no pretense of accident. She felt the calluses on his palm against the back of her hand, rough and warm, and the plane suddenly felt less foreign, like an extension of both of them instead of a thing she was failing to master.
"Like this," he said, and pressed gently—not pushing the plane, just shifting the angle of her wrist, aligning her arm with the grain. She let him move her, let her body follow his direction, and when she pushed again, the blade sank into the wood and flowed this time—a clean, even stroke that produced a second curl, this one matching his in thickness, in grace.
The curl dropped, pale and fragrant, and they both watched it settle on the floor.
His hand stayed on hers. His breath was warm against her temple, his chest a solid weight at her back. She could feel the steadiness of him, the stillness he carried like a second skin, and the plane in her hand felt like a bridge she hadn't known she was crossing.
"That was good," he said, and the words came rough, scraped. "You learn fast."
She didn't answer. She set the plane against the wood again, and this time when she pushed, his hand moved with hers—not guiding anymore, just present, just there, the rhythm of the stroke becoming theirs, the dust settling around them like a promise neither of them had spoken yet.
The shaving curled and dropped. Another. Another. And when she finally stopped, her arm trembling with the effort of holding the plane steady, she realized she'd stopped holding her breath—and so had he.