The confession hung in the air of the workshop, more dangerous than any touch. James felt the lie he’d worn all day at the family dinner shatter, leaving only raw, trembling truth. He watched Matt’s hands, still holding a chisel, go perfectly still—the stillness of a man hearing a foundation shift. The scent of cedar and sweat was suddenly too thick. James had just said it. The words were out, hanging between the hanging tools and the dust-moted light: “I told them I’m seeing someone.”
Matt didn’t move. His eyes, dark and fixed on James, were unreadable. “Seeing someone,” he repeated, the words flat. Not a question. A tasting.
“A woman,” James whispered. The correction was ash in his mouth. “From work. I gave her a name. Sarah.”
The chisel finally lowered, placed on the bench with a deliberate, soft click. Matt’s knuckles were white. “Why?”
“My mother. She kept… she looked at me. Over the roast. She said I seemed lighter. Happier. She asked why.” James’s voice broke. “It was a performance. The whole dinner. My father talking about legacy. My sister’s fiancé. And I was just… empty. I had to give them something. So I did.”
“You gave them a ghost.” Matt’s voice was low, a rumble of tectonic plates. “You gave them a lie to make them comfortable. While I’m the real thing you have to hide in a truck or sneak through a window.”
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that, James.” Matt took a step forward. The space between them crackled. “You built them a decoy. A pretty, acceptable decoy. What does that make me? The dirty secret in the workshop?”
James flinched. “It makes you the reason I can’t breathe at that table. It makes you the only real thing in my life. The lie was for them. The truth is here. It’s you.”
Matt closed the remaining distance. He didn’t touch James. He stood so close James could feel the heat coming off him, could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the pulse hammering in his throat. “Say it,” Matt breathed. “Say the truth here.”
“I’m yours.” The words left James in a rush. “I’m gay. I’m in love with you. I want a life with you. Not Sarah. Never Sarah. You.”
A shudder went through Matt. The control snapped. His hands came up, framing James’s face, calloused thumbs pressing into his jaw. “Again.”
“I’m yours, Matt.”
Matt’s mouth crashed onto his. It wasn’t a kiss of comfort. It was a claiming. A branding. James gasped into it, his own hands flying to Matt’s shoulders, gripping the worn cotton of his shirt. The taste was familiar—coffee, frustration, want—but edged with a new desperation. Matt’s tongue swept into his mouth, deep and possessive, and James surrendered to it, letting the lie of the dinner burn away under this specific, undeniable truth.
Matt walked him backward until James’s spine met the solid edge of the heavy workbench. The wood dug into his lower back. Matt’s hands left his face, sliding down his chest, his stomach, to the buckle of his belt. The metallic rasp was loud in the quiet shop. James watched, breath ragged, as Matt yanked the leather free, then popped the button of his trousers, dragged the zipper down. The cool air hit James’s heated skin. Then Matt’s warm, rough hand was inside his briefs, wrapping around his cock.
James cried out, his head thudding back against a shelf. His cock was already hard, aching, and Matt’s grip was firm, knowing. He stroked him, once, twice, a slow, brutal friction that made James’s knees buckle. “This is real,” Matt growled against his throat, his breath hot. “This is what you are. Not some polite son with a girlfriend. This. Hard for me. Dripping for me.”
“Yes,” James choked out. He was already leaking, pre-come slicking Matt’s palm, the wet sound obscene and perfect. Matt worked him, his pace relentless, his other arm braced against the bench, caging James in. The world narrowed to the grip on his cock, the press of Matt’s body, the sawdust scent of his neck.
“They don’t get this,” Matt whispered, his lips against James’s ear. “They don’t get to know how you sound. How you feel in my hand. This is mine.” He twisted his wrist on the upstroke, and James saw white behind his eyelids. “You come for them?”
“No,” James gasped.
“You come for me.”
“Only you. Always you.”
Matt released him abruptly. James whimpered at the loss, his cock throbbing, exposed to the air. Matt dropped to his knees. The sight alone—Matt Rossi on his knees on the workshop floor—stole the air from James’s lungs. Matt looked up at him, eyes blazing, and then he took James into his mouth.
Heat. Wet, swallowing heat. James shouted, his hands flying to Matt’s hair, tangling in the dark curls. Matt took him deep, his throat working, then pulled back, his tongue flattening against the sensitive underside. He lavished attention there, on the leaking slit, on the pulsing vein, before sinking down again, deeper each time. James could only watch, hips twitching, as his cock disappeared into the wet, perfect heat of Matt’s mouth. The sounds were filthy, wet sucks and low groans that vibrated through James’s core.
Matt’s hands gripped James’s hips, holding him still, controlling the pace. He was relentless, a man on a mission, worshiping and devouring in the same breath. His tongue circled the head, then plunged down the shaft. He hollowed his cheeks. James was babbling, a stream of “please” and “Matt” and “god.” The coil in his gut wound tighter, a screaming pressure. He was close. So close.
Matt pulled off with a wet pop. James’s cock stood, glistening and desperate. Matt rested his forehead against James’s thigh, breathing hard. “Not yet,” he panted. “Not like this.”
He stood up in one fluid motion. His own arousal was obvious, straining against his jeans. He kissed James again, deep and searching, letting James taste himself on his tongue. Then he turned James around, pressing his chest flat against the cool wood of the workbench. “Hold on,” Matt commanded, his voice rough.
James gripped the far edge of the bench. He heard the rustle of clothing, the tear of a foil packet—Matt always had one in his pocket here, their secret station—and then the slick sound of him sheathing himself. Matt’s hands were on his hips, pulling his trousers and briefs down to his thighs. The air was cool on his exposed skin. Then Matt’s body covered his, heat and weight and safety.
“Look at me,” Matt said, his voice a raw whisper by James’s ear.
James turned his head, cheek pressed against the wood. Matt’s face was inches away, his expression fierce, open, vulnerable. “I see you,” Matt said. “Only you.”
The blunt, rubber-tipped head of Matt’s cock pressed against him. James pushed back, a silent plea. Matt entered him in one slow, inexorable thrust.
Fullness. A stretch that bordered on pain, then melted into a relief so profound James sobbed. Matt was buried inside him, chest heaving against James’s back. He didn’t move. He just stayed there, joined, his breath hot on James’s neck. “This,” Matt whispered, voice trembling. “This is the truth. Right here. You feel it?”
“I feel it,” James cried. “I feel you.” Everywhere.
Matt began to move. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock almost all the way out before pushing back in, filling him completely. Each thrust was a punctuation to a sentence they’d been writing for months. Mine. Real. Ours. The workbench creaked in a steady rhythm. James pushed back against him, meeting every movement, the friction building a fire in his gut. Matt’s hand slid around his hip, finding his aching, neglected cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts.
James was unraveling. The dual sensations—Matt inside him, Matt’s hand on him—were too much. The pleasure built in crashing waves, each higher than the last. He chanted Matt’s name, a broken prayer against the wood. Matt’s thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming faster, harder, more urgent. His breathing was ragged in James’s ear. “Come for me,” Matt gritted out. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The command shattered him. James came with a choked cry, his release striping the bench and the floor below, his body clamping tight around Matt in pulsating waves. The intensity pulled Matt over the edge with him. Matt drove in one last, deep time, burying himself to the hilt, and James felt the hot pulse of him inside, a final, liquid claim. Matt’s groan was long and low, a sound of surrender and homecoming.
They collapsed together over the bench, spent and trembling. Matt’s weight was a welcome anchor. His lips found the sweat-damp skin of James’s shoulder. They stayed like that, joined, breathing in the shared air, until the world slowly seeped back in—the smell of sex and wood, the distant sound of traffic, the grain of the bench under James’s cheek.
Matt softened and slipped out. He gently pulled James’s clothes back up, his hands tender now, smoothing the fabric. He turned James around and gathered him into his arms, holding him upright as James’s legs threatened to give way. They stood there in the center of the workshop, clinging to each other.
Matt pressed a kiss to James’s temple. “No more ghosts,” he said, his voice quiet but absolute. “No more Sarah.”
James nodded against his chest, the last of the lie scrubbed away by sweat and touch. “No more ghosts.”
“The box on the shelf,” Matt said. “It’s not for someday. It’s for now. We start filling it. With real things. Our things.” He pulled back, cupping James’s face. His eyes were clear, resolved. “We tell them. Together. Soon.”
The fear spiked, cold and familiar. But beneath it, under the memory of Matt moving inside him, of the truth forced from his lips, was something solid. A foundation. James took a shaky breath. He looked at the small cedar box on the shelf. Then he looked at Matt. At his carpenter’s hands, his earnest eyes, the man who built things to last.
“Okay,” James said. The word was small, but it was the heaviest, truest thing he’d ever said. “Together.”
Matt sealed the vow with a kiss. It was tender, grounding, a soft press of lips that held the weight of the promise they’d just made. When he pulled back, his thumb stroked James’s cheekbone. “Okay,” he echoed, his voice a low rumble.
He kept one arm around James’s waist, supporting him, and with his free hand he reached for the small cedar box on the shelf. He brought it down, setting it on the workbench with a soft thud. The lid was unadorned, the wood sanded smooth. “First thing,” Matt said. He picked up the chisel he’d been holding when James arrived. The steel was cool, the handle worn shiny from his grip. He pressed the tip into the soft inner corner of the lid and carved a single, deliberate notch.
“What’s that?” James asked, his voice still hoarse.
“Today,” Matt said. He put the chisel down and opened the box. It was empty, smelling of fresh cedar and hope. “The first real day.”
He turned James gently, guiding him to sit on the edge of the workbench. James’s legs dangled, his muscles loose and trembling. Matt knelt, not in worship this time, but in care. He untied James’s shoes, slipping them off, then his socks. The cool, dusty floorboards felt shocking under his bare feet. Matt did the same with his own boots and socks, tossing them aside. “Grounding,” he said simply, standing again. “No lies between us and the ground here.”
He began to undress James again, but slowly now. Not with the frantic hunger of before, but with a ritualistic care. He unbuttoned the wrinkled dress shirt, easing it from James’s shoulders. The air in the workshop was cool, raising goosebumps on James’s skin. Matt folded the shirt, a crisp, perfect square, and placed it on a clean stool. “You won’t need this here,” he said.
James watched, mesmerized, as Matt undressed himself with the same deliberate calm. The worn t-shirt, the jeans. They joined the small, neat pile. Naked now, they stood facing each other in the shaft of sunlight. Dust motes danced around them like gold. Matt’s body was a map James knew by heart—the scar on his ribs from a childhood fall, the dusting of dark hair across his chest, the softening line of his cock, spent and vulnerable.
Matt took James’s hand and placed it flat over his own heart. The beat was strong, steady. “This is the only thing I’m sure of,” Matt said. “You feel that?”
James nodded, his throat tight. He could feel his own pulse racing in his fingertips, answering Matt’s.
“Then we build from that.” Matt led him away from the bench, to a clearer space on the floor. He grabbed two thick, canvas drop cloths from a stack, shaking them out before layering them on the wood. It was a makeshift bed, rough and honest. He lay down first, on his back, and held out a hand. “Come here.”
James lowered himself, the canvas scratchy beneath his skin. He settled alongside Matt, their bodies not yet touching, just sharing the same patch of sun-warmed floor. The silence was different now. Not charged with desperation, but thick with something being settled.
“Tell me about the dinner,” Matt said quietly, his eyes on the rafters above. “Not the lie. The rest of it. The food.”
The question was so ordinary it disarmed him. James let out a shaky breath. “There was sea bass. With ginger and scallions. My mom was proud of it. The rice was… sticky. Perfect, like always.”
“Did you taste it?” Matt turned his head to look at him.
James thought. He remembered the weight of the lie in his mouth, the dry swallow. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t think I did.”
Matt nodded as if this was a crucial piece of data. He shifted onto his side, propping his head on his hand. His gaze traveled over James’s face. “Your father. What did he say?”
“He talked about the market. About stability. He asked if Sarah’s family was in finance.” James closed his eyes. “I said they were in textiles. I made up a whole fucking industry for her.”
Matt’s hand came up, his fingers tracing the line of James’s eyebrow, then down the bridge of his nose. The touch was feather-light, investigative. “And what did you want to say?”
James’s eyes flew open. The truth surged up, raw and unpolished. “I wanted to say, ‘His name is Matt. He’s a carpenter. He builds beautiful things with his hands. He makes me feel real. And when he fucks me, I forget how to lie.’”
A slow smile spread across Matt’s face, fierce and proud. “That’s what goes in the box.”
He leaned in and kissed him again. This kiss was deep, languid, a slow exploration. James sank into it, into the taste of Matt—sweat, wood, him. Matt’s hand slid down James’s side, over his hip, coming to rest on his thigh. His palm was warm, heavy. The touch sparked a fresh, low ache in James’s gut. His body, sated minutes ago, began to stir again, a slow, insistent thrum.
Matt felt it. He broke the kiss, his eyes darkening. He looked down between their bodies. James’s cock was filling again, thickening against his stomach. Matt watched it as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. He didn’t touch it. He just watched it harden, his breath coming a little faster.
“You’re incredible,” Matt murmured, almost to himself. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to James’s sternum, then lower, following the trail of dark hair. His mouth was hot, open. He licked a stripe down James’s abdomen, making him jerk. James’s cock jumped, fully hard now, curving up towards his navel.
Matt nuzzled the thatch of hair at the base, inhaling deeply. “You still smell like us,” he said, his voice muffled. “Like me, on you.” He kissed the inside of James’s thigh, his stubble scratching the sensitive skin. Then the other thigh. He was mapping him, claiming every inch with his mouth, but avoiding the place James needed him most.
“Matt,” James pleaded, his hips lifting off the canvas.
“Shhh.” Matt’s hands pushed his hips back down, holding him firm. “I’m learning you. All over again. Without the ghost.”
He moved lower, spreading James’s legs wider. The air was cool on his exposed skin. Matt’s breath was hot. He kissed the back of James’s knee, the hollow behind his ankle. Then his hands were on James’s ass, kneading the muscle, spreading him open. James buried his face in his own arm, a moan tearing from his throat. He was completely exposed, utterly vulnerable, and it felt like freedom.
Matt’s tongue touched him then, not on his cock, but lower. A hot, wet stripe over his entrance, the place still tender and slick from their earlier joining. James cried out, his whole body arching. Matt did it again, slower this time, licking into him, tasting himself mixed with James. The sensation was obscene, intimate beyond anything they’d done. James shook, his fingers clawing at the canvas.
“You taste like truth,” Matt growled against his skin. He pushed his tongue inside, just a little, and James shattered into a million pieces. Pleasure, sharp and bright, shot up his spine. He was babbling, begging, completely undone by this act of raw devotion. Matt worked him open with his tongue, relentless, until James was sobbing, his cock leaking a steady stream of pre-come onto his stomach.
Only then did Matt move up. He kissed the small of James’s back, the dip of his spine, each vertebra. He kissed his shoulder blades. He turned James onto his back with surprising gentleness. James looked up at him, wrecked, tears cutting tracks through the dust on his cheeks.
Matt loomed over him, his own cock hard and heavy against James’s thigh. He reached for the discarded jeans on the floor, fumbling in the pocket. He pulled out another foil packet. His hands were trembling. He sheathed himself, the latex stark against his flushed skin. He didn’t move to position James. He just looked at him, his chest heaving. “How do you want me?” he asked, the question a raw gift.
James reached for him. “Here. Like this. I want to see you.”
Matt nodded. He hooked his hands under James’s knees, lifting them, pushing them back towards his chest. James went willingly, opening himself completely. Matt guided himself, the blunt head pressing where his tongue had been. He pushed in, and it was different this time. Slower. Deeper. A reclamation, not a claiming. James watched Matt’s face as he sank in, watched his eyes roll back, his mouth fall open on a silent groan.
When he was fully seated, he stopped. He lowered himself, bracing his forearms on the canvas on either side of James’s head. Their faces were inches apart. Matt was inside him, surrounding him. “See me,” Matt whispered.
“I see you.”
Matt began to move. A deep, rocking rhythm that was less about friction and more about connection. Each thrust pressed their chests together, their stomachs. James could feel every inch of him, the heat, the weight, the love. He wrapped his legs around Matt’s waist, locking his ankles, holding him close. He reached up and cradled Matt’s face, his thumbs stroking the rough planes of his cheeks.
They moved together in the silent workshop, the only sounds their ragged breaths, the soft shuffle of canvas, the wet, intimate slide of their bodies. James felt the climb begin again, a slow, inevitable tide. It wasn’t the frantic race to climax from before. It was a swelling, a filling up. He felt it in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes.
“I’m close,” Matt gasped, his rhythm faltering. “James… look at me.”
James held his gaze. Matt’s eyes were wide, vulnerable, full of a terrifying hope. As James felt his own orgasm gather, a deep, rolling wave, he saw the exact moment it hit Matt. A flinch, a beautiful fracture. Matt came with a choked sob, driving deep, his body shuddering. The feeling of Matt pulsing inside him tipped James over the edge. His release was quiet, a warm flood between their pressed stomachs, a sigh that carried the last of his fear out of him.
Matt collapsed, careful to keep his weight on his arms. He rested his forehead against James’s, their noses touching. They breathed the same air, in and out, until their heartbeats slowed into a syncopated rhythm.
Eventually, Matt softened and slipped out. He didn’t move away. He rolled onto his side, pulling James with him, fitting James’s back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight. The sunbeam had moved, now painting a golden rectangle on the far wall.
James stared at that patch of light. He felt hollowed out, scoured clean. He felt new. Matt’s breath was warm and even against his neck. His hand lay splayed over James’s heart.
“When?” James whispered into the quiet.
Matt’s arms tightened around him. “Sunday dinner.”
Three days. A lifetime. A heartbeat. James nodded. The fear was there, a cold stone in his gut, but it was outside of this circle of warmth, outside of Matt’s arms. Here, on this rough canvas, with the scent of their sex and cedar in the air, it had no power.
“Okay,” James said again. The word was no longer heavy. It was a key, turning in a lock.
Matt pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Okay.”