Page 14 of Sparks Fly

I wanted to ask more about that first part, but instead I just smirked. “Opposites have tension,” I said while returning to the weld. “Tension’s interesting.”

Benji made a face like he had bitten into a lemon. “You’re going to drag my sister into your chaos spiral,” he said.

I grinned without looking up. “She’ll survive,” I teased.

“She’ll document it in a leather-bound planner and schedule recovery time,” he replied.

“She’ll look hot doing it,” I said.

Benji groaned and lifted his mug like it was a shield. “I’m too tired for this queer disaster energy before eight a.m.,” he muttered.

“Better wake up,” I said while steadying the metal. “Chaos doesn’t wait.”

Benji snorted into his coffee and wandered off toward the workbench at the other end of the shop, muttering something about needing more caffeine before dealing with my life choices.

The radio hummed quietly overhead while the rest of the crew filtered in one by one. The shop filling slowly with the familiar rhythm of grinders, torches, and half-awake conversation.

The gate came together cleanly over the next few hours, sweeping lines and curled vines shaping into delicate detail around the latch. It was a personal commission for a Beacon Hill couple with too much money and a dog named Mozart. I liked jobs like this. Precision. Repetition. Work that kept my hands busy and let my brain wander.

I kept my headphones in with the music low beneath the hiss and sparks of the torch while the morning slipped past.

Around noon I stripped off my gloves and wiped my forehead with the hem of my shirt when my phone buzzed across the bench.

Addison: My day is already stupid. Four showings. Two listings. One client cried in the kitchen and asked if I moonlight as a therapist.

I smiled before I even realized I was doing it and wiped my hands on a rag before typing back.

Me: Do you? Because I’d book a session just to complain about traffic.

The typing bubble popped up almost immediately.

Addison: I’m thinking of charging for emotional labor. $300/hour. One whiskey or brunch minimum.

Me: Deal. I’ll bring whiskey. I don’t brunch.

Addison: You don’t brunch??

Me: No one needs eggs at noon in uncomfortable clothes or shoes that tight.

Addison: That’s the most lesbian sentence I’ve ever read.

Me: Stick around. I’ve got more.

The shop had filled around me while we were texting. Grinders hummed somewhere across the room, someone cursed when a bolt rolled under a workbench, and the radio crackled between songs that were never quite in tune with the station.

I didn’t tell her about the gate or the sealant fumes or the brass lettering spelling Mozart along the lower rail. I didn’t need to. She texted like she wanted to be known, like the words just fell out of her head and into my phone without much filtering, and I liked that more than I wanted to admit.

* * *

Around five I packed up my tools, peeled off my gloves, and tugged my hair loose from the tie that had been holding it up all day.

The air outside felt cooler when I stepped into it. I swung onto the bike and rode home slower than usual, the visor cracked open just enough for the wind to move against my face. Traffic was light and the road felt wide, the kind of ride that loosened something tight in my chest without me having to think too hard about why.

When I got home, I stopped into Queer Expectations to say hi to Soren, who was there closing up for the night.

Soren looked up from the stack of books she was labeling and smiled when she saw me walk through the door. “Hey, Sawyer. How was the day?” she asked as she set the sticker sheet down on the counter.

“It was good,” I said, leaning one shoulder against a tall bookcase. “Finished a gate. I still have to do the install later this week, but it came out nice. How was the day here?”