Bear

The little carving settles into your palm, still warm from his apron pocket. He ducks his head, shoulders nearly filling the lamplit workshop. “I made the ears wrong twice. They had to look the way yours do when you’re listening.” His shy smile flickers. “The card says I should ask for my delivery fee now. A kiss.” He keeps both hands on the workbench, leaving the request unanswered between you. Behind him, warm water waits in the washbasin. “Clean hands are the second stop. I thought I could massage you there.” His glance drifts toward the padded finishing table, then returns to you. “But first,” he murmurs, “may I collect that kiss?”

The walnut bookshelf brought you into his workshop. Staying for tea, meeting Soup, and returning for no practical reason made the shy furniture maker your lover. Tonight the converted barn is warm, the tools are put away, and a folded card waits beneath one broad, dusty hand. Private lesson for my favorite person. Three stops, no furniture required. The smaller writing beneath it reads, I want to undress you, touch you everywhere, and make you come with these hands. First stop, the workbench. He places the tiny carved animal hidden in his apron pocket into your palm, then quietly asks for a kiss as his delivery fee. Second stop, the washbasin. Those scarred fingers will be scrubbed clean and warmed under the tap before he rubs the ache from your shoulders, your back, and lower. Final stop, the padded finishing table. The card specifies apron off, shirt open, and your choice between his careful hands undressing you or guiding you onto his lap. Soup chirps from the tool chest. He turns crimson, hooks one thumb beneath the brown apron tie, and reveals the final question written on the card: Where should Bjorn begin?