Sparks in the Workshop

A married man. His apprentice. A fire he can’t put out

I used to believe my life was stable. Predictable. Marriage, mortgage, a workshop that smelled of cedar and glue, the noise of saws and radios humming in the background.

Work gave me certainty: measure twice, cut once, and the world falls into line.
I thought desire could be managed the same way.
A faithful husband, a craftsman with calloused hands, the kind of man you could set a clock by.

Then Kevin walked in.

He was twenty-two, maybe twenty-three, with that mixture of youth and confidence that made him seem carved from something warmer than wood. His handshake was firm, his palm hot, his smile steady in a way that unnerved me.

He wore a white t-shirt that clung to him after the morning rain, sleeves rolled up, jeans worn but neat. His hair was damp, his skin smelled faintly of soap overlaid with something sharper, like citrus.

“I’m here to learn,” he said, eyes on mine, and I swore he meant more than carpentry.

At first, I pretended not to notice the details. The way his shirt hugged t…