7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Shit. I curse myself as I kick the side of the cabin after hearing the door slam. I fucked up and hurt Tristan’s feelings. I could see it in the look on his face. It was like I’d taken a dagger to his heart. Sad blue eyes met mine, and I instantly regretted my words. I didn’t mean any harm, but seeing him out here in the freezing cold in the shortest fucking shorts known to man, with his bare legs out, just sent my protectiveness into overdrive.

His slim legs, which I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off, had been turning a light shade of blue from the cold. What I wanted to do was pick him up and carry him back inside, place him by the fire, and wrap him up in... well, me. But instead, I made him feel bad. I shouldn’t have gone all dad mode on him. He’s a twenty-four-year-old man and I have no business telling him what he can and can’t wear. Fucking hell’s bells. He calls me here to help him and all I do is berate him.

I put Tristan to the back of my mind for the time being, as I need to focus on fixing the pipe. On the drive here, the radio forecast that heavy snow is on the way. The light flurrying that started about an hour ago is already getting heavier, sticking to my coat, and the cold wind is starting to sting my face. If I want to get home tonight, I need to get a move on.

As I pour the hot water onto the metal pipe, wisps of steam immediately begin to rise and dance in the air. I have only been waiting for a few minutes when I hear the familiar sound of water rushing through the pipe again. This time, the fix is straightforward and quick. As I approach the porch, I place the kettle down before making my way to the shed to retrieve the rest of the items needed to complete the job.

The shed is wired with electricity and stands at the same height as the cabin. The choice of red paint was a nod to Jake’s childhood fascination with toy fire engines. It appears I share a liking for the colour red as well.

After flipping the light switch, I survey the inside. Neatly stacked piles of wood flank each side of the doorway, waiting to be split and brought onto the porch. The smell of damp, musty wood fills the space, but it differs from what I’m used to. In the summer, I’m accustomed to the dry wood that reminds me of crackling campfires and the aroma of toasted marshmallows and hot dogs.

Originally, I built it as storage for all Jake’s toys. He was only knee-high to a grasshopper when I finally started to work on renovating the cabin. It was run-down and needed lots of work, but it was structurally sound. We spent every summer out here, and even Jenny used to come when Jake was still a toddler, but as he got older, it was just me and him. When he was younger, we shared a room, each of us having a single bed, but once Jake got older, he wanted his own space, so the sofa became my bed, unless we were out camping.

Now there are no longer paddle boards and camping gear on the back shelf. Nor fishing rods and bikes mounted on the wall. Saws and tools are now in their place, and all my summer gear is neatly packed away.

As Jake grew up and became focused on uni, he would only make it out here for a few weeks in the summer holidays. It’s been a good few years since he’s been here. My little boy is, after all, a grown man now. But some things are of too sentimental value to get rid of, like the mud painting Jake did when he was five. It still hangs on the shed wall, his grubby handprints still visible on the canvas.

In the far corner, I have a big box of random things that always seem to come in handy when I least expect it. We used to call it the crap box. You know that box you put absolutely everything in because ‘ one day you might need it ?’ I grab one of Jake’s old pool noodles and a standing knife, then cut it to the length I need. With the blue noodle in hand, I make my way outside along with some duct tape and secure the foam to the pipe to stop it from freezing up again.

Loading up the wheelbarrow, I top up the wood stores on the porch. Then I find a bucket big enough to fit the Christmas tree in. The bricks I was saving to make an herb garden in the spring will come in handy. By adding weights to the big plant pot, they can stabilise the tree and prevent it from toppling over. I rummage through the boxes and finally find the string of lights that I normally hang around the porch during the summer. After all, what’s a tree without twinkling lights?

Despite my best efforts to deny it, I know very well that I’m procrastinating, hesitating to face Tristan inside. But now I’m running out of things to do. With the snow showing no signs of letting up, I gather my courage to go inside, ready to face Tristan, hoping to be forgiven so I can head home.

Pushing the front door open, I’m greeted not only by the delicious smell of food, but Tristan with his back to me in those bloody shorts and crop top. I nearly swallow my tongue, watching him dish up two steaming bowls. My stomach growls and my mouth waters, but not for the food. My glasses steam up from being outside in the cold and then walking into the warmth of the cabin. Everything goes blurry as I take them off to clean them with the hem of my jacket so I can see again. Short-sighted, that’s what the opticians told me five years ago. Nothing like a pair of glasses to make me feel like an old man. The first pair I bought made Jake laugh; he described them as grandad glasses because of their gold-rimmed frames and oversized lenses. Of course, he insisted I go back with him to buy some hip ones, to avoid the kids at school taking the piss out of me. So now I’ve got more stylish ones. Designer frames in nutbrown that apparently complement my face shape.

Bringing in the bucket and lights, I place it all next to the tree, hang up my coat, take off my boots, and make my way over to him. Placing the kettle back on the side, he turns to me with a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Like he’s just trying to be polite. There’s a noticeable change in his blue eyes. They seem devoid of life, less vibrant. I’m such a piece of shit. I did that to him.

“You got it all fixed, then?” he asks, picking up the two green bowls.

“Yeah, all sorted. I’ll just turn the stopcock back on under the sink and I’ll be on my way.”

“Well, you can’t leave before you eat.” He raises the bowls. “So do that, then come sit.”

Once I’ve turned on the water supply, I make my way over to Tristan, taking a seat on the opposite side of him.

“Here, have some bread. You can use it to mop up the gravy.” A plate of buttered goodness is thrust across the table. Taking three slices, I greedily start eating.

“Mmmmm, this is amazing,” I moan. “Thank you,” I add around mouthfuls of food. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“My mum,” is all he says. He takes small bites of his food, and his shoulders are more hunched over.

“Well, if I ever meet her, I’ll be sure to tell her she taught you well.” I go for a tentative smile.

His left eye twitches as he bows his head and continues to eat. It’s quiet while we both fill our bellies, and the weight of my mistake starts weighing heavily on me. There’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there before, and I don’t like it. Once I’ve finished eating, I sit patiently waiting for Tristan to finish his, but after pushing a carrot around his bowl for the third time, I take matters into my own hands.

“Look, I’m sorry about earlier,” I start. Tristan’s eyes meet mine as I continue. “I didn’t mean to shout at you. I dunno what came over me. But I genuinely didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Sometimes, I just speak before I think. I’m used to telling the kids at school what to do, so I guess it must’ve been the teacher in me. Please forgive me?” If he wants to punch me in the face right now so I can feel as hurt as he looks, then I’ll gladly take the hit.

The spoon Tristan was holding drops into his bowl and he pushes it away. “It’s fine,” he says, his voice not relaying any emotions.

“No, it’s not fine, and it’s also okay if you tell me to piss off, or that I’m a complete arsehole.” The last part gets a little smile from him, his lips doing a cute curl at the corners of his mouth.

He sighs. “You’re not an arsehole. I... I just don’t like being made to feel small. Ridiculed. Pathetic. Truth is, I was bullied at school. It just brings back all of them old feelings that I’ve tried so hard to overcome.” The smile disappears again, and it feels like the sun has retreated behind a grey cloud.

Dickhead , I curse myself. Absolute dickhead. I finally get to be around the one person who’s made me feel attraction in the longest time—maybe ever—and I blew it. Way to go, Dax. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. But that doesn’t excuse my behaviour. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I just saw you half-dressed out in the cold and wanted to... I dunno...” Slumping back in my chair and pushing my glasses to the top of my head, I rub my eyes.

“Protect me?” he says, his voice all frail and vulnerable.

I huff out a breath, putting my glasses back on. “Yeah, something like that.” Exactly that! My heart thunders in my chest.

“I get it. You’re a good dad and the kids you teach are lucky to have you. It’s only natural that you’d be concerned.” He gives me a half smile. “I’m sorry I made you feel bad because I’m sensitive.”

Is he for real? He’s apologising to me ? Without even realising it, my hand moves across the table and clasps his in mine. Considering I usually avoid holding hands, this feels strangely right. “You have every right to feel sensitive. I shouldn’t have said anything. And I’m sorry for the way you were treated in school; no one should have to go through that. Clearly, they were the real arseholes, and I hope they all have karma pay them a visit and end up with super hairy toes or smelly breath.” The sound of Tristan’s spontaneous laughter lights up my insides, bringing a smile to my face. That’s better. I like seeing him happy.

“You’re ridiculous,” he frowns, the smile lingering in his eyes.

“Got you to smile, though, didn’t I?” I feel terrible that I brought back bad memories for him. If I’d been in his school, I would’ve made all of them fuckers pay. Detention for a year. Rubbish duty in the rain. I can’t stand bullies. We don’t tolerate it at our school. We try to teach our kids to be good people and to raise each other up instead of putting each other down.

We’re still holding hands, but I’m not going to be the one who pulls away first. This might be my only chance to experience the velvety touch of his soft skin against mine. Looking across at him now, I mentally capture every detail of his appearance; from the way his smile radiates happiness to the shimmering blue of his eyes, now that the sparkle in them is back. The scattering of freckles across his nose. The way his curls have a mind of their own, dancing and swaying with each move he makes. Adorable. There’s something about his red hair and pale complexion that reminds me of a little fox. Little Fox.

He squeezes my hand. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For what? Upsetting you?” I say as I rub my thumb over the top of his hand.

“For making me laugh. For understanding. For saying sorry.”

Squeezing his hand back, I say, “Just for the record, I think you’re perfect, just as you are.”

Although a cute blush creeps up his neck, I instantly regret my words, knowing that even though they are sincere, they’re better left unsaid. He’s my son’s best friend, which makes him completely off-limits.

As much as I hate to do so, I pull my hand back. The last thing he needs is me confusing him with mixed signals. The way my heart races whenever I see him is my issue. Not his.

Standing up, I push back my chair and grab my bowl to carry it to the dishwasher. Tristan’s bare feet pad softly behind me. “I need to get going before the snowstorm gets stronger.”

“Oh. Well... at least let me wrap you some cookies for the journey home. You might not have time to stop if the weather gets too bad.”

See? Bloody perfect.

Taking the container, I walk towards the front door. Reluctantly, I put on my coat and slip my feet back into my damp boots. Tristan remains rooted in the same spot as earlier, his arms now tightly crossed in front of his chest, and his gaze fixated on the floor. There’s a tiny ember of hope burning inside me, suggesting that he might not want me to leave after all. Because leaving is the last thing I want to do. But I have to. I must . “Well... I best be on my way. Thank you again for the cookies,” I shrug, holding up the cookies.

“You’re welcome. Thanks for fixing the leak,” he says softly, something lingering in his voice that I can’t quite decipher.

Even now, he refuses to make eye contact, his toes sinking into the softness of the thick rug. What was I expecting? That he would throw himself at me and beg me to stay?

“Take care of yourself, Tristan.”

His small voice only just reaches my ears. “You, too.”

Before I do something crazy like throw caution to the wind and kiss him, I pull the door open. A powerful gust of wind grabs the door and flings it open, banging on the cabin wall, revealing a spectacular snowstorm and the untamed force of Mother Nature. Shit, I’ve left it too late. There’s no way I can drive home in that blizzard. The snow is so thick that it blankets everything in sight, obscuring the view beyond the porch.

I grab the door and slam it shut, turning towards Tristan just in time to notice an enormous smile stretching across his face. It seems almost too perfect to be a coincidence; if I didn’t know any better, I would think he had intentionally arranged this. “Guess I’m not going anywhere tonight,” I sigh.

“Oh no, what a shame.” He blinks. Turning, he heads to the kitchen with a sway to his hips. I’m so screwed. It’s fine, I try to tell myself. It’s just one night. I can keep my hands to myself.

It’s. Just. One. Night.