The first thing Jake registered was the soft, gray light of dawn filtering through the curtains. The second was the warm, solid weight of Duncan’s head on his chest. He’d fallen asleep in the chair beside the bed but had somehow migrated to the mattress during the night, drawn to the other man’s warmth like a plant to the sun.
Duncan stirred, a soft groan escaping his lips as he shifted. The movement pulled at the skin on his back, and he flinched, his eyes fluttering open. They were hazy with sleep and the lingering shadow of pain, but they focused on Jake with a startling clarity.
"Hey," Jake whispered, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Hey," Duncan rasped back. He tried to push himself up, his arms trembling with the effort, and collapsed back onto the pillow with a frustrated sigh. "I feel like I've been hit by a truck."
"You were caned by a bear, is more like it," Jake said, a small smile touching his lips as he gently brushed a stray lock of hair from Duncan’s forehead. "Don't move. I'll get you some water."
He slid out of bed, his movements quiet in the still morning. He padded downstairs, returning with a glass and the bottle of sandalwood oil. He helped Duncan sit up slowly, propping pillows behind his back, and handed him the water.
"Thanks," Duncan said, his voice quiet. He watched as Jake poured a small amount of oil into his palms.
"This might be a little cold," Jake murmured, gently turning Duncan to expose his back. The fifteen red lines were a stark, angry ladder against his pale skin. Jake began to massage the oil into them, his touch impossibly gentle, his fingers tracing the welts with a reverence that made Duncan’s breath catch.
The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming. It wasn't about sex or power. It was about care. It was Jake, his former tormentor, his new submissive, his... boyfriend, tending to his wounds with a tenderness that Duncan had never known.
"You're good at this," Duncan said softly, his voice thick with emotion.
"I've had a lot of practice being sore," Jake replied, his voice low. "Just relax."
And for the first time in a long time, Duncan did. He closed his eyes and let Jake take care of him, the gentle circles of his hands a silent promise that this was real, that they were real.
After Jake finished with the oil, he helped Duncan into a soft robe. They moved downstairs, the domesticity of the moment feeling both strange and right. Jake put on a pot of coffee, the familiar gurgle and hiss filling the silence.
They sat at the kitchen table, two mugs steaming between them. The morning sun cast a warm glow on the worn wood, a stark contrast to the intense, shadowed world they inhabited just hours before.
Duncan broke the silence, his voice still raspy but clear. "About what I said last night... you moving in here."
Jake took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze steady. He wasn't going to let this slide. "You mean the part where you offered me a room in your castle in exchange for being your mom's handyman?"
Duncan had the grace to look sheepish. He winced as he shifted in his chair. "Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds like a rich kid throwing money at a problem. I wasn't thinking."
"No, you weren't," Jake agreed, but his tone wasn't angry. It was matter-of-fact. "But I was. I did the math, Duncan. Tuition, rent, my savings account... which is more of a savings pamphlet at this point. The numbers are always red. You're not throwing money at a problem. You're erasing the biggest line of red ink I have."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "But it can't be a handout. I'm not your pet project. If I do this, I pay rent. Not a lot, but something. And I'll do the work for your mom, but that's a separate agreement. I'm her handyman, she pays me. We're building a life, not a charity."
Duncan looked at him, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. He saw the strength in Jake, the unshakeable core that had drawn him in from the beginning. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay. We'll do it your way. A partnership."
"Good," Jake said, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. "Now, tell me about this place. What's the wifi password?”
The morning passed in a blur of sweat and lumber. Jake fell into the familiar rhythm of the work, the physical exertion a welcome distraction from the chaos in his head. For a few hours, he was just Samuels, framing a wall, his hammer swinging in a steady, hypnotic beat. He almost managed to forget.
Around ten-thirty, a familiar diesel engine rumbled at the edge of the site. Jake glanced over from where he was measuring a cut. A silver F-150, the one he now knew belonged to Cal, pulled up and parked.
Cal got out, dressed in the same work-worn flannel and jeans as yesterday. He was just the owner doing a site check-in, a routine occurrence. But for Jake, it was like watching a shark swim into the shallows. His heart kicked up a notch.
Cal walked the perimeter with Mick, pointing at the foundation, making notes on a clipboard. He was all business. He didn't even glance in Jake's direction. Jake found himself holding his breath, waiting for the moment of recognition, the subtle signal that would change everything.
But it never came.
After about twenty minutes, Cal finished his tour. He was heading back to his truck when he walked past Jake's work station. He stopped for a brief second, his gaze falling on the two-by-four Jake was about to cut.
"Make sure that's a true ninety, Samuels," Cal said, his voice flat and professional. "Don't want the inspector finding any lazy angles."
Then, just as quickly, he was gone. He gave a short nod to Mick and climbed into his truck, pulling away without a second look.
Jake stood frozen for a moment, the saw in his hand. That was it. That was the entire interaction. Cal hadn't hinted at anything. He hadn't given him a secret look or a knowing smile. He'd treated him like every other guy on the crew.
A wave of relief washed over Jake, so potent it almost made his knees weak. He let out the breath he'd been holding and turned back to his work. He could do this. He could be just Samuels from the crew. At least for the next eight hours.
After his shift, the drive to the cottage felt different. The familiar route now seemed charged with a new meaning. He was no longer just a guest; he was the almost-confirmed handyman, the boyfriend. When he walked in, he found Duncan in the front room, not resting, but pacing. He was dressed in loose sweats, moving with a barely perceptible stiffness, but his energy was back, a restless, caged-animal vibe that was pure Duncan.
"You're up," Jake said, a note of caution in his voice.
"I'm bored," Duncan declared, stopping his pacing to face Jake. "Lying in bed is for the sick. I'm not sick." A slight wince as he gestured contradicted his bravado.
Before Jake could reply, a woman's voice drifted in from the kitchen. "Duncan, darling, is that him?"
Duncan's face broke into a wide, genuine smile. "In here, Mom!" he called out, his voice filled with an eager energy that was both endearing and slightly terrifying.
A moment later, a woman who was clearly Duncan's mother appeared in the doorway. She was elegant, dressed in crisp linen slacks and a silk blouse, her hair was a chic, artfully highlighted blonde, and she regarded Jake with a cool, appraising gaze.
"You must be Jake," she said, her voice smooth and cultured, a stark contrast to the rough voices Jake was used to at the site. "My new handyman?”
Jake stood frozen, feeling like a deer caught in the high beams of a very expensive car. He forced a smile, trying to remember how to talk to someone's mother, let alone someone's very rich, very poised mother.
Before he could stammer out a greeting, Mrs. Smythe’s appraising gaze softened into a look of charming recognition. "I remember you," she said, her voice warm and disarming. "You and Duncan were in scouts together, weren't you? And on the football team..."
She trailed off, tilting her head as if plucking the memory from the air. "You were always such a solid boy. Good on the line." She extended a perfectly manicured hand. "Eleanor Smythe. It's so lovely to finally meet you properly, Jake."
Jake took her hand, his calloused work-rough palm feeling clumsy against her smooth skin. "Uh, yeah. Mrs. Smythe. It's, uh, good to meet you too."
"Oh please, call me Ellie," she said with a wave of her hand, already moving past him toward the kitchen. "Duncan, be a dear and pour Jake some coffee. He's had a long day." She looked back at Jake, her eyes twinkling. "Now, tell me, dear. Are you any good at fixing a leaky faucet? The one in the guest bath has been driving me absolutely mad.”
The front door clicked shut, and the cottage fell into a new kind of silence. Ellie watched the door for a moment, then turned to her son, a knowing, cat-that-ate-the-canary smile on her lips.
"Well," she began, her voice smooth as silk as she glided over to the liquor cabinet and began fixing herself a drink. "He's... solid. Just like you said."
Duncan let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Yeah. He is."
"He seems to make you happy," Ellie observed, not looking at him, her focus on the gin she was pouring. "You're different with him. More settled." She turned, her eyes sharp and assessing. "So, this is it, then? The real thing?"
Duncan looked at his hands, then back at his mother. "Yeah, Mom. It is."
Ellie took a slow sip of her gin and tonic, her gaze unwavering. "Good. It's about time you stopped bringing home those vapid little girls whose fathers' names you could drop." She paused, letting that hang in the air before delivering the real question. "So, Jake Samuels. The boy with all the brothers, and that tiny woman of a mother trying to herd them all."
Duncan looked up, surprised. "You remember his family?"
"I remember everyone, darling," Ellie said with a dismissive wave. "I always wondered, you know. If you were ever going to just say it."
"Wondered what?" Duncan asked, his guard instantly up.
"If you were gay," Ellie said simply, her tone softening. "A mother knows, darling. I've known since you were fifteen. But this is the first time you've actually introduced me to a boy." She took another sip, her eyes glinting with curiosity. "Although, I must admit, I'm a bit surprised it's ‘him.’ I seem to recall you making that boy's life absolute hell all through school. A rivalry, wasn't it?"
Duncan flinched, the memory landing like a punch. "It was... complicated."
"Uncomplicate it for me," Ellie pressed, her voice gentle but firm. "You spent a decade tormenting him, and now he's your... what? Your handyman? Your boyfriend? Both?"
"He's my boyfriend, Mom," Duncan said, his voice tight with a mix of defensiveness and honesty. "And yeah, I was an asshole. But things are different now. We're different."
"Clearly," Ellie said, her gaze sweeping over the front room. Her eyes passed over the heavy wooden pillory in the center without a flicker of recognition or interest; it was just another piece of her son's eccentric, expensive furniture. She looked back at Duncan, a genuine, warm smile finally breaking through her cool facade. "Well, he's a handsome young man. And he seems to adore you. God knows why." She walked over and kissed his cheek. "Just be good to him, Duncan. He looks like the kind of boy who's had enough people be bad to him for one lifetime.”
The Taproom was a cavern of dark wood and neon, smelling of floor wax, stale beer, and the faint scent of stale popcorn. The music was a low, rhythmic bass thump that vibrated in Jake’s chest. He focused on the mahogany counter in front of him, his rag moving in efficient, practiced circles. The bar was quieting down as the last of the staff moved through their closing routines.
Around 11:45 p.m., the front door finally clicked shut on the last stragglers. Maria came out from the back office, locking the deadbolt and giving Jake a weary nod.
"You heading out, Jake?"
"Yeah, Maria. Night."
"Drive safe," she said, nodding toward the back exit.
Jake walked to the back door, grabbing his keys and a hoodie from the hook by the door. He threw the hoodie on over his work clothes—still smelling faintly of sawdust and diesel from the morning. He stepped out into the cool night air. The drive home was a blur of headlights cutting through the dark road. He didn't listen to the radio. He just drove, his thoughts fixed on a single point: the house on the hill.
When he pulled into the driveway, the cottage was dark. But the light in the kitchen was on.
He found Duncan sitting at the kitchen table, a book open but unread in his lap, staring out the window. He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes deeper than they'd been that morning. At the sound of the door, Duncan looked up, his face softening the moment he saw Jake.
"You've been gone a while," Duncan said, his voice tired but fond.
"Yeah. Long night," Jake replied, stepping inside and locking the door. He kicked off his boots and walked over, wrapping his arms around Duncan's neck and burying his face in his shoulder. Duncan smelled like sandalwood oil and sleep.
"I missed you," Duncan whispered, his arms coming up to hold him tight.
"I know," Jake murmured, pulling back just enough to look at him. "I missed you too."
They didn't say much more. There were no grand declarations. They just moved on autopilot, shedding the layers of the day. They made a quick sandwich in the kitchen, ate in companionable silence, and then went upstairs.
Climbing into bed was a ritual now. Jake helped Duncan get comfortable, wincing slightly as the older man moved. Duncan curled into his side, his head resting on Jake's chest, his hand finding Jake's and interlacing their fingers.
The day's stress—the work, the secret, the pain—seemed to melt away in the warm, dark room. Jake ran his fingers through Duncan's hair, feeling the soft strands against his skin.
"You're a good boy, Jake," Duncan whispered sleepily.
"Only for you," Jake replied, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Duncan hummed contentedly, his breathing evening out. Jake closed his eyes, holding him tight, the promise of the future settling comfortably around them like a heavy, warm blanket.
