Your message was just like you: careless and demanding. The broken table leg. I had to come back, since I was the one who built it. I didn’t look for excuses; I just left.

I arrived, and I hadn’t even breathed in the scent of the room before you were already sitting on the table. The wood barely creaked under your weight. You lied about the flaw; we both knew it. But in the end, I’m here.

I leaned down. The handle of the screwdriver in my palm, the raw, dry scent of the wood in my nose. You stayed up there; I was working close to your legs. I tried to focus on the tip of the tool, but the warmth radiating from your skin made my movements heavy. You were too close. I felt the weight of your gaze on the back of my neck, the pleasure as my focus slowly slipped out of my control.

“Do you always take repairs this seriously?” you asked. Your voice was deep and gritty, like unpolished timber. “Only when someone inspects my work this closely,” I replied, but my mouth was dry.

With great effort, I tightened the last screw. I straightened back up. I stood there, between your legs. “It should be fine now,” I said, but my face was already burning. “It would be a shame to just take your word for it,” you answered, and your smile was reckless.

We didn’t move. Neither of us was in a hurry. The screwdriver fell silently onto the plush rug. It wasn’t needed anymore.