Itta-Cookie

You don’t remember life without it.

Maybe there was a time when it didn’t exist. When you were young, when there wasn’t enough sentience for memory to take root. A time when your youthful limbs were free to skip and run, no heaviness to drag them down. A time when waking up felt like the start of a new opportunity instead of repeating the same old pain.

And then you learned of soulmates.

When children your age sighed, dreaming of finding the one, you were the loneliest you’ve ever been. A solid weight, a rusted chain around a lamppost, tethered to nothing, scraping the ground in solitude.

When other fifth graders poked their palms gently with a pencil, hoping a certain someone in class would feel it too… you wished you didn’t have a soulmate in the first place.

You learned the hard way not to offer this particular opinion so freely. Fifth grade was a lonely mess because of it. 

Years went by, as they are wont to do. There were more and more days when tying your shoelaces was as difficult as a gold medal Olympic sport. It was on those days that your mind often found itself twisting. Confused, just for a moment, at the reality of it. 

Maybe it was never you. Maybe it was them.

Maybe the reason you had to miss Brenda’s birthday party—the one everybody went to—the reason your favorite outfit felt all wrong and scratchy all over you couldn’t even breathe… was them. Your soulmate. Maybe they were the source of your hurt.

Maybe everything, the sensations in this body, the pain, was their fault, not yours. 

You cried so much that day.

Even now, past the larger real-world bricks adulthood threw at you, you can still feel it if you think about it enough. The emotional bruise eclipses the physical.

But you know it isn’t their fault.

The first time you felt your soulmate’s pain, you knew as certain as the blood that ran through your veins: it wasn’t yours.

It felt… different. The sensation was as bright as a primary color. In between your knuckles on both hands was a dull throb, three-pointed and went away as soon as it came. 

As real as it tingled, you recognized that it was far away. A layer of discomfort that’s separate from yours, echoed into your body like a ripple that calmed at the edges. A ghost of the original, painted on your body like a faded counterfeit canvas.

It happens often. The knuckles in particular. Sometimes it’s on your torso, your arms, your legs, lightly punishing parts inside of you that you don’t exactly know. They rarely linger.

That time in fifth grade, when you told your study group you wished you didn’t have a soulmate and turned the entire class against you?

You remember thinking: they must be suffering because of you. 

You wished you didn’t have a soulmate because they’d have to carry your suffering. And you wouldn’t wish this kind of suffering on anyone.

The kind of suffering that leads to dismissive doctor’s orders that cost too much money, marked by clipped tones after trying your best to explain yourself. The kind that invites questions, so many of them. Well-intentioned folks that can’t relate to half of what you’re going through. Skeptics accusing you of passing your soulmate’s pain as your own—or worse, of being lazy.

What would you say to your soulmate, should you ever meet them? “I’m sorry for making you feel like you’ve got full-body bruises every day”? 

You moved the moment you could.

You left your town, taking all your savings, a secondhand car that has nearly ten times the miles of the Pan-American Highway, and whatever stuff you can fit in the trunk and backseat. The pain came with, of course. 

The destination?

Somewhere remote. All the way west and past the border, a Canadian town whose skyline is cradled by majestic ridges. A place where spring’s wildflowers speckle a horizon line, where thick ice melts into crystal clear waters.

You chose a place so far away as if you could shed your ache among the interstate dust.

Because far meant a lot less people, and that meant a lot less noise. A lot easier to pretend soulmates didn’t exist. 

What you didn’t know was that running away led you right to the one person you’d never want to meet.

The first time Logan spots you is at a hardware store.

He isn’t supposed to be there. Some spat between the delivery guy and the boss, and suddenly he’s the one loading and unloading timber across town.

Your soft blue sweater looks like a little lake between aisles of caulk and paint. An out-of-place loveliness that pulls him in, footsteps on tile. He can see the deep crease between your brows as you bring a tub of what looks like putty closer to read the label. You’re muttering.

“Can I help you?” 

You turn. He blinks, taking you in—your eyes, the part of your lips. 

“I just want to understand why there are so many types of spackling paste,” you sigh exasperatedly.

He forces his attention past how pretty he finds you and starts asking questions: if you have experience patching up walls, how big the cracks are, the material of the walls.

From there he finds out that you’ve moved into that little lot up at Saddle Peak, a house that’s only ten minutes from his on a dirt road. A place just as remote, except it’s more woods than mountaintops. He learns that you work at the library, the only one in town.

The small talk gives him time to study your eyes. The shape of them. Something about the way you look at him makes him stop and wonder: what exactly have they seen that made you come here, of all places? Most folks your age yearn for more. Bigger.

Maybe you’re running from something.

Whatever it is, it’s none of his business. A deserter like him should know.  

He picks up a container that has ‘FAST ‘N FINAL’ printed on it in big red letters.

“Use this. Dries faster, sands easier.”

“Well, thank you so much, um…”

“Logan.” 

You smile. “Thank you, Logan.”

Then you offer him your name and a handshake, and there’s an imperceptible lurch under his ribcage. A flicker of a glow, a stirring of gears. He nods at you like the vowels that form your name didn’t slap him awake. A man like him shouldn’t be allowed to taste thrills—and this shouldn’t feel like a thrill in the first place, not in this place with its harsh overhead lights and the smell of lumber he just came to deliver.

Something tells him it’s not just electricity. For one second, the fibers that keep him together flutter. The kind of sensation deep in his bones, a signal for something big. 

He leaves you for the parking lot, but his mind stays in that aisle, picturing you in that blue sweater with a tub of putty, probably wandering the store for more things to fix up the brick house up on Saddle Peak.

You seem like the type to prefer plaid tablecloths over polkadots. Lilies over roses.

He wonders if he gets to know for sure.

The second time is hard to miss when your car is parked next to his outside the grocery store. 

He sees you lean, one hand over the open trunk door, looking wearily at the two brown bags on the ground like you regret buying them. He doesn’t ask any questions, just puts a hand in his pocket, the other resting on the top of his Chevy.

“You alright?”

You blink, a little startled. “Oh. Logan. Hi.”

“Those yours?” 

You nod. 

Before you can protest, he grabs them and places them neatly along with the rest of the bags in the trunk of your car. There’s a sense of giving up on your face, like you’re too tired to fight some kind of unseen enemy.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

“Headin’ home?”

“Yeah. You?”

He nods. “I could help.”

“Hm?”

“Carry those,” he nods at the bags. “Make it one trip instead of two.”

You look like you’re weighing your choices and he finds himself hoping for a certain outcome, as if war hasn’t taught him enough about hope.

“Only if you have nothing better to do,” you finally say. He lets himself smile at that—the slightest of tugs on the corner of his lip. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have. Bringing a man you’ve only met twice to your house by the woods feels like a horror movie plot, even if it’s just to let him help with your groceries. But he can’t help it. Has he not seen a pretty thing like you in that long? The school teachers that flirt with him and his lumberyard buddies are plenty cute, and he just saw them yesterday night. 

But there’s a depth in your eyes like no other, beguiling him to step deeper into the waters. A familiar heaviness, too. Like you’re moving mountains in secret.

He carries all of your stuff in one go, as advertised. You offer him something to drink in thanks. He settles for coffee.

After a few miles of his El Camino trailing two seconds behind your vehicle, the both of you pull up at your house.

Red brick facade and shingled roof, a charming amount of ivy creeping past the windows. Small yet well-maintained. The mahogany front door has stained glass on them, late afternoon sun dappling colors on the floor when you unlock it and tell him to come in.

There are white dots over stucco-covered brick on the far side wall. Putty in cracks.

“You filled them in.” 

“It was easy to sand,” you comment. “Thank you for that, too, by the way.”

He takes in the space. It’s bare. No moving boxes or clutter of sentimental belongings, like you think you might offend the house if you over-decorated. No photo frames or artworks or fridge magnets. It doesn’t look like you moved in a few days ago—it looks like you’re sheltering yourself from a storm. 

But the dining table has a square tablecloth on it. Cream-colored. Plaid. 

The old thing under his breastbone squeezes tight. There’s a string tied around his heart. He didn’t know it existed.

You are a gracious host, showing him around the single floor. Its square-foot size means the dining table is crowded into a corner by the window, and the only bathroom is nestled within your modest bedroom. A hideaway in every sense of the word.

What could you be running from? The oppressive noise of the city, classic pressures of modern living, romantic troubles? That last one can force a man to the other side of the earth.

He watches you smile and sit by the kitchen island, the weariness in your eyes a double meaning in and of itself—like your body is tired, but also your soul.

Soul.

Maybe it’s that. Soulmates. 

He hasn’t thought about it in a long time. On one hand, he finds no time or space for the very concept of it in the type of life he leads. On the other, it’s unjust. 

Whoever his soulmate is must be cursing his existence for jumping into line after line of fire, baring his claws, dancing in perilous heat. They probably aren’t blessed with regenerative healing. It cripples him to think of what they must go through, bearing his pain, so he doesn’t.

Not anymore.

Considering he was born a century ago, there’s a good chance his soulmate is already dead, anyway.

So yes, maybe that’s what you’re running away from. 

Maybe you can’t find it in you to love the one destined for you. Or maybe it’s the other way around. The latter stings to think about—you, aching and alone, crawling into a Canadian corner, finding comfort from an unbreakable bond of pain with someone who no longer wants anything to do with you.

He swallows at the thought.

A tension builds between his shoulders. An infinitesimal fraction of the soreness of muscles stitching themselves back together after a long battle. It’s gone within seconds.

He listens to you talk about the backyard. It’s a mess, but a bountiful one, overgrowth of trailing rosemaries and wild strawberries blanketing rich soil, blending seamlessly into the forest. Thriving a bit too much without even trying to.

“You gonna start gardening?” he asks.

You don’t look at him when you answer. “We’ll see.”

That afternoon, there’s a sense of comfort while the two of you skirt around each other, a repartee so easy it almost feels practiced. He surprises himself by dropping some personal morsels as if responding to yours. His job at the lumberyard, a vague picture of his military past, where he likes to eat lunch. You refill his coffee and tell him about the books that make you feel safe. 

When he leaves, you’re no longer a stranger, but a neighbor.

He has a feeling it’s reciprocated, the way you stand by the doorway and watch as he feeds himself a Cohiba, lighting the end only when he’s seated behind the wheel. The elbow that rests on the car window waves easily at you when he pulls the coupe away.

You wave back, smiling.

The third time you meet him is by accident. 

The diner is crowded, but it’s the closest source of coffee. And you need it sorely. The lunch you had is heavier than you can handle, and the looming pollen season only makes the oncoming drowsiness worse. 

You’re waiting by the counter for your order when a figure approaches from the corner of your eye.

“Logan,” you turn, smiling, “what are you doing here?” 

He looks good as he saddles up next to you. A dark blue western button-down, the collar of his white undershirt peeking underneath, blue jeans on long legs. He leans on the counter and glances behind him, but his frame is blocking the view, almost like he’s trying to shield you from view.

“Late lunch with the lumberyard boys,” that velvety baritone replies. His voice has to be laced with caffeine, because you’re suddenly more awake now. “You?”

“Escaped for a bit to get a cup. I’m so sleepy,” you admit sheepishly.

“Tossed and turned last night?”

“No, no, I slept fine. This is probably a food coma.”

You look over at him. He looks different in this light, though to be fair, you’ve only seen him in two different sun configurations. This time it’s soft white and evenly diffused through picture windows. It blurs the lines on his face, making him look younger, less etched by the past.      

Your fingers twitch. They want to touch his skin. 

“How’ve you been?” you look away at the chalkboard wall menu like you were going to order something else. If you stared at him longer, his gravitational pull might make you do something stupid. 

“Not so good.” 

That captures your attention quick, eyes snapping back to his, worried.

“Why?”

He leans in, looks down for a second like he’s about to tell you a secret. 

“You keep showing up.”

There’s a lump in your throat. Your breath hitches. A look flashes in his eyes, the tiniest hint of roguery in hazel irises.

“The next time I meet you, I don’t want it to be by chance.”

Heat crawls and settles onto your cheeks. You pretend it’s not there.

“Next time?” you ask.

He nods. 

“Dinner on Friday. Caesar’s. How’s that sound?”

When did he get so close? You can smell the richness of trees in his hair. 

“That… sounds great, actually,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. 

“What time do you clock outta the library?” 

“Seven.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay.”

A loud drawl of your name shatters the moment, and you jerk as a waxed paper cup is thrust into your hand, about as hot as your cheeks. You need to get back to work.

“I’ll see you on Friday,” you say, rushing out of the diner like the coffee is burning your hand. You hear a man ask “who’s the cutie, Logan?” followed by some teasing before the heavy doors swing closed.

His smooth voice rings in your ear.

The next time I meet you, I don’t want it to be by chance.

You look down at the paper cup, awake and extremely aware of what just happened.

When was the last time you felt this way?

The last time you felt like you’re wanted without world-shattering follow-up questions like ‘I’m pinching my arm now, does it hurt yours?’ and the barely masked disappointment that chases right after.

The last time life was as simple as asking for what you want in order to get it, and that somehow eases the pain that follows you like a twin.

The last time you felt like a person. 

You feel like you just wasted money on coffee.

On Friday, you wake up to the beginning of a storm. Its center is your body. 

You brave through it. You have to. Today is too important for fog and fatigue. 

Today he’s taking you out to dinner.

You walk yourself through the morning routine. Get to the bathroom in one piece. Put on clothes that make you feel good, but still comfortable enough to last you the entire day. Drive to the library.

Then it’s time to work. 

There’s that reading program you’re planning with the local primary school. A new intern assistant is coming in today and you’re in charge of instructing her on her responsibilities. In the afternoon, a couple of town hall folks will drop by. Funding talk. 

It’s looking to be an unforgiving day. 

If you tell someone “don’t think about an elephant”, they’ll only end up thinking about elephants, or so it goes. So you do your best not to mind the ache in your joints and focus on the task at hand.

For the most part of the morning, you pull through. Even if your typing is slower today. Even when familiar Dewey decimals become foam at the tip of your tongue. The fog. Do not think of it. 

Somewhere in between your best efforts, it all goes wrong. 

Out of all the years you’ve used this topical cream, it chooses today to smell wrong. Sharper. Slightly nauseating. It relieves the pain in your neck at the cost of blooming a sensory headache.

Doesn’t help that you start to feel self-conscious about the aroma. You’re supposed to go on a first date with a charming man who looks entirely out of your league, three—no, two and a half hours after this meeting. Reeking analgesic is not going to help your chances for a second date.

At around five in the afternoon, it flares, angry and bright.

You’re not sure how to survive this. 

You keep trailing off mid-sentence whenever you speak, too preoccupied with pain. Pain with a capital P. 

The heat pads don’t help, not when your whole body feels like it’s working against you.

When sitting upright takes just about everything out of you, you feel like crying—not because of the pain, but because you won’t see him tonight.

If you go to dinner, you’ll most likely end up collapsed in a chair, dead weight that can’t even walk itself to your car, much less drive. Then come the questions. The explanation you’ve offered enough times to get sick of it yourself. And maybe, if you allowed yourself to think the worst of him, the “are you sure you’re not just tired”—the same words they keep saying to you. 

You won’t let him see you like this.

So you drag yourself to your colleague’s desk, weakly telling him you’re not feeling well and will be heading home for the day. Begging them to please let the gentleman picking you up at seven know that you won’t be able to make it for dinner. And that you’re really sorry.

That’s about the only thing you can do before you pack up your essentials and make your way to the parking lot, feeling like your ligaments are weighed down by sandbags.

Can you drive? No, it’s not about that, you have to. Just take it slow, you convince yourself. You’ll arrive eventually. The key is reaching home without somehow getting more hurt. That’s the last thing you want in this situation. 

You start counting your breath the minute you drive, one for each inhale and exhale. It’s at seventy-something before your brain begins to scream the most mundane motions in your head just so you don’t mess up—CLUTCH. BRAKE. ACCELERATE.—like you still have L-plates stuck on your windscreen. 

The dirt road leading up to Saddle Peak never looked so good.

You vaguely remember stopping the car. The walk to your front door uses up the dregs of what fuels your limbs. You don’t even make it to your bedroom. Shoes are kicked off and you collapse then and there on the couch. 

As temporary as it is, relief still makes you shudder. The pain doesn’t go away, merely dulled. At least you can breathe better now that you’re home.

You see Logan when you close your eyes.

God, you hope he doesn’t think you stood up on him. Not after that moment in the diner. Not after he stirs something in you, something other than this crushing, endless fatigue.

You hope he doesn’t disappear.

He doesn’t, but you do, faint thoughts of him floating in your mind even as you slip into darkness.

Logan waits for ten minutes. Fifteen. By the twentieth minute, the fur-lined jacket starts to feel like an embarrassing mistake, like he got the wrong idea entirely.

He’s lived and breathed the assess-decide-act cycle. Everything about this smells like a bailout. A whisper of a doubt shakes between his thoughts. Did he imagine the whole thing, or was he a victim of a trick? The ease while you talked about your house, the color on your cheeks that day at the diner… You looked relieved when he asked you out, or so he thought.

Despite all assessments pointing to walking away, he walks into the library building instead.

Hope is a stubborn thing, and it wants him to believe you’re not that kind of person.

Old habits die hard. Military-trained eyes flick through exit points, memorizing name tags and badges like he’s in a grey zone. Jackson Pearce—front desk—directed him to Sasha Ewing-Clark—back office—who calls over one Louis B. Barrett, who promptly tells him that you are out sick and that you can’t make it to dinner.

The young man also apologized for forgetting about the memo. At least he’s still around to pass the message.

Your place is on the way to his. He should drop by, make sure you’re okay, at least. Ignore that whisper of a doubt that remains implacable, stubbornly feeding ideas into his head—that maybe you’ve changed your mind, that you don’t want to be found.

He drives a little over the speed limit. By the time that red brick house comes into view, the sun is setting, an orange ball of fire hanging low between the trees on the west side of the road. He pulls up next to your car—you’re home, it seems.

Walking up to the stained glass door, it’s hard to see inside thanks to the light. But he knocks. A set of three stern raps against wood. 

Silence. He knocks again.

There’s a crash from the inside, like shards of glass on hardwood floors, then a curse. Your voice.

The sound lights up his nerves like a battlefield and his hand is already on the doorknob, twisting it. It’s unlocked. He bursts in.

He calls your name, but sees you there immediately. Standing at the mouth of the hallway, broken remnants of a mug scattered and glinting near your feet. You’re in a worn sweatshirt and a pair of flannel pants, looking like nothing is particularly wrong, except for the surprised look on your face.

“Logan?”

“You okay?” he says, sounding a lot more worried than he thought he could.

“Yeah, just—don’t—there’s a lot of glass, let me get the broom—”

Two things happen at once, and quickly.

The first is you stepping on an unseen shard on the ground near you. You hiss out a low “ow, shit” while hobbling two steps into the hallway, one hand propping you up against the wall while you twist to see the blood on your bare left foot.

The second is a stinging pain on his foot, like a fire ant bit him through his boots. 

The same spot you’ve hurt yourself.

His brain screams, but his body freezes. Assess, decide, act—except his senses takes three, four extra seconds for him to believe. 

There’s no fire ant in his lumberyard-approved boots, but the pain is very much real.

It’s yours.

What snaps him out of it is the sight of you, still trying to walk. There’s a drip of blood on the walnut floor. He bolts after you, footsteps thudding loud on wood and then crunching on glass before he hoists you over without ceremony, carrying you over his shoulder.

You yelp, vision swimming.

A few paces later, you’re draped gently on the couch, seeing the world right side up again. He takes his place on the other end of the couch. Hazel eyes narrow as he gently leads your leg to lift, intently surveying the bare pad of your foot, thumb stroking the skin around the cut. You feel the area throb. It hurts because of unfortunate placement, more than anything.

“Does it look bad?”

He shakes his head. “Still bleeding, though. You got a first-aid kit?”

“Drawer under the kitchen island,” you sigh, head leaning back against the armrest. You feel a little stupid and a lot helpless. “There should be towels there, too.”

He’s there and back in a flash, but the movements he makes when tending to your foot is anything but rushed. He has the piece of what used to be your mug clamped with a pair of tweezers. Firm. Ready.

“This is gonna hurt,” he looks at you.

You nod, gripping the edge of the seat. “Just get it over with—”

The last syllable melts into a groan as a singlemindedly sharp pain flares through your nerve endings. Logan holds up the offending shard, about the size of a button, before placing it on the coffee table next to the couch. It’s stained red.

“You’re lucky it dug in sideways,” he rumbles, already reaching for rubbing alcohol and cotton. “Would hurt a lot more if it punctured. This’ll hurt too. You ready?”     

You force yourself to nod, still breathing heavily from the glass.

He’s right, of course. The burn of the antiseptic solution is more drawn out, lingering around the lacerated part of your skin like a hot purge. You try to inhale deeper while he cleans the wound. His touch is stern but slow. Reminds you of an earned scolding from a good friend—uncomfortable, but sorely needed.

“You’re doing great,” he whispers, not taking his eyes off your foot. There’s a heat that pulses through you at the way he said that, and you wonder if an accelerated heart rate will get in the way of a wound closing.

Reality sets in—he’s here. In your home. He was supposed to pick you up at the library.

“Did Louis tell you to come here?” you ask.

He shakes his head, pressing the cotton pad over the entire wound. You hiss. It feels like punishment for talking about someone else.

“He told me you were sick and you went home.”

Your voice is small when you reply. “You didn’t have to check up on me.”

He looks at you, still holding a soaked cotton pad to your cut. There it is again, the gleam you’ve seen once, yet know all too well. 

“Wanted to see if my date bailed out on me.”

You smile, both teasing and weak. “You don’t seriously think that.”

His tone sobers, looking back down at your wound.

“Minds change.”

The breath is knocked out of your lungs at his words—murmured, a little less sure. Did you keep him waiting? Did he really think you stood him up? What are you supposed to say without sounding like you’re making excuses, or having to provide an executive summary of your personal brand of suffering?

You lean forward, as if your body is asking him to please look here.

He doesn’t, busy plastering a gauze. You speak anyway.

“I’m sorry. I tried to push through it, but I couldn’t,” you offer softly.

“You’re apologizing for being sick?” he looks up at you, eyebrows folded.

You stare back, lips parted. If you can be honest about one thing…

“I… was really looking forward to it. Dinner. With you.”

You feel the plaster stick. He’s done nursing your wound, but his hands linger. 

“That true?”

You nod, trying to school your face into something that doesn’t spell out youthful eagerness. He looks at you like he knows what’s really inside your chest, then stands up to take his jacket off. You’re not sure you’re allowed to look at how his white undershirt hugs his chest like a vise. 

“What do you say we do it now, then?”

“Huh?”

“The date. After I clean this, of course.” He gestures to the broken glass on the ground.

“I don’t understand—” you swing your legs, but he tuts.

“Don’t you even think about moving. Where’s your broom?”

You sigh. “Supply closet. Down the hall, to the left.”

It doesn’t take long until you see what he means. The fortunately large shards on the ground are disposed of safely, and suddenly he’s raiding your fridge and pantry, lining up ingredients on the kitchen island. A bag of pasta. Tomato sauce. Half a lemon. 

“Are you cooking?” you hop over to where he’s standing. The look he gives you is downright disapproving, but you settle yourself on a bar stool before he can stop you. 

“It’s not gonna be anything like Caesar’s,” he runs a hand through his hair. You suddenly have the urge to do the same.

“I can help.”

“Not with that foot, you aren’t, sweetheart.”

You clench your jaw, hoping it passes off as frustration from being asked to sit still rather than a physical response to the nickname. 

“You’ve helped enough, Logan. I can’t possibly let you.” 

“Yeah, well, you can’t do anything about it, can you?”

You hate that he’s right. What are you supposed to do to pin down a man over six feet with your throbbing joints and a fresh cut on your foot?

On another occasion, you’d indulge in fantasies of less appropriate methods, but not today. Not when the hurt defeated your persistence and gave you an actual injury like that was its prize. Not when you were convinced you won’t see him, yet here he is anyway. In your kitchen cooking dinner as if he knows where the spices and the good skillet are.

You’ve put up enough fruitless fights today. Maybe it’s time to stop.

“Fine,” you sigh, “at least take off your boots in the house.” 

Dinner was spaghetti bolognaise with a whole lot of substitutions, but still good. He holds your arm when you move to the couch. The conversation that ensues is easy despite your fatigue—the nap earlier really helped—and the injury is manageable.

You joke that the beer he’s drinking is payment for patching you up. He says you still owe him for cooking dinner. 

“What do I owe you, then?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Eye for an eye. Come over mine and cook for me.”

You laugh. The first time today, and maybe in a long time. 

“How bold.”

“Too much?”

You shake your head, letting your lips melt into a smile. “I heard the view up there’s amazing.”

“See for yourself,” he hides his own smile behind the can of beer. “It’s only ten minutes away.”

“Sure, after my foot is better,” you fold your leg, tapping on the gauze. It doesn’t hurt unless you put your weight on it. Logan told you to change the dressing often and run water on the wound—that should speed up the recovery.         

“I hope you’re not going to work tomorrow,” he places the beer can on the coffee table. Empty.

“Don’t know if I can,” you lament. “I’ll call in sick.” 

The two of you talk like that for the rest of the night, implying future plans like not-so-secret codes. Cooking dinner for him to call things even, finding a time to eventually go to Caesar’s like you were supposed to. Maybe a nightcap after at his favorite bar. 

He’s on the quieter side between the two of you, but that doesn’t make him hard to talk to. In fact it’s the opposite. The topic of jobs tangents into a discussion about lumber and their various smells, and when the conversation makes a U-turn, he asks how you’re supposed to remember where a leaf is in a forest of books. 

Then you talk about logging trees versus logging book requests, and just about everything else under the sun.

Everything except soulmates.

You wonder if he’s as curious as you are. If he knows you’ve abandoned your search. If he has, too, and that’s why it’s so easy for him to be with you, content without confirmation. Maybe he found the one and decided they weren’t right for him—a common enough story. Or maybe he’s still holding out.

You wish you could find out without asking. Throwing the question first means it’ll be thrown back at you. You don’t even know what to say if he asked. “I don’t want to know who my soulmate is because I’m probably causing them so much pain” is so much more confusing than silence, and so you settle for concealed curiosity. 

Let it stay easy between you and him. 

When the two of you realize it’s late, you walk him to the door despite his insisting otherwise.

Despite the tug in your chest that misses him when he’s still in front of you. 

“Thank you. For everything,” you say, hovering by the open doorway. This is the first time you’ve seen him in your porch light.

“You’re welcome,” he digs his hand in his pocket. He lingers too, as if his feet are too heavy to move. 

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

He’s still looking at you. 

You don’t know how, but you gather enough physical and mental strength to lean up. A gentle hand on his jaw. A kiss on the cheek. The song of crickets in tall grass is drowned out by your own heartbeat, thumping in your ear like a wound-up drum.

When you part, it’s not far. You want to search his eyes for disapproval.

He kisses your lips instead.

You almost tip backwards—he’s tall—but he anchors you with an arm around your waist. It guides you closer to him until your chest brushes against his, and it feels like they’re never supposed to be apart in the first place.

He’s warm, large hands on your back and hip lulling you into a sense of security. Then one of them cups the back of your head, tilting you slightly, letting him kiss you deeper.

You sigh. You’re safe here.

Then his tongue meets yours just barely and it ignites a flurry of fireworks behind your ribs, the explosions echoing throughout your limbs. Finally, they sigh, a sensation that’s the opposite of pain.

You cup his jaw for a pause, needing air more than wanting it. If it were up to you, you’d kiss him forever. He groans as if it hurts to stop. 

“Do you want me to go?” he murmurs against your mouth.

“No,” you breathe.

“Good.”

He leans in again.

Time bleeds since that night, painting beautiful rivers that intertwine your life with his. Work is generous enough to give you a week off. You spend it mostly with Logan, like he isn’t just some guy you met by chance in a hardware store.

Like it’s the most natural thing to do.

And it is. Logan in your home, letting you rest your feet on his lap on the couch. Logan in your bedroom, stroking your hair, waiting for the sun to climb higher.  

When you asked if he was needed at work, he said, “I haven’t called sick in years. They can survive a few days without me.” 

And just like that, you’re not simply neighbors anymore. Not since that kiss.

It’s his own fault that he’s trapped here, really. The first time he asked was the night you cut your foot, but he hasn’t stopped. Always “do you want me to go”, in the morning when you wake up warm in his arms, or breathed into your ear when you’re tangled together at night. As if he’s doing everything in his power to make you say no.

As if he’s scared you’d actually want him gone.

But you don’t. Always a shake of your head, and then time and intimacy peels back your life-hardened layers. You find your voice. “No, stay.” “I want you here.” Quiet proclamations of your desire. Soon, your body learns to speak the same language, arms around his torso, face buried in the crook of his neck.

Don’t go.

“If you really want to leave, you shouldn’t ask,” you teased him once.

“I’d be crazy to,” was his response.

He stops asking after that.

In fact, he doesn’t ask at all.

Doesn’t ask about the assortment of pills in the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. Doesn’t question what you’re doing when you apply topical cream or place a heatpad on yourself.

But you know it’s not ignorance. It’s anything but.

He watches the exhale you let out, how you lean against the sink after washing the dishes. Notices the days you need a moment to wake up, the way you walk to the bathroom in calculated steps. Sees you take your medicine. 

And more than that, he always helps. He never rushes you for anything, quietly matching his pace with yours. He takes out the trash without being asked to. He buys groceries while you’re out cold, deep in a nap you didn’t know you needed. He doesn’t coddle or fuss, just offers you a hand before you get up from your seat. Never fails to pull you up, no matter how heavy you feel. 

It’s almost like he’s waiting for you to tell him.

So you resolve to.

You’re at his place this time, finally fulfilling that promise of cooking for him, and it’s beautiful. Almost unjustly so. The panoramic view of the Rockies are uninhibited, filling you with a rare sense of wild freedom in contrast to the cozy sanctuary that is his log cabin. 

He likes your food, thank goodness. Lucky for you, he seems to like you more, always eager to have you in his arms.

He wakes you up today to see the sun rise. It blazes a pinkish red, flooding the sky, making snow-white peaks blush. You’re on his chest between the sheets, satisfied with the scenery of the great outdoors and turning your focus to the man that tore down your walls with nothing but gentleness and comfort.

Your voice is low and husky. “Remember when we were supposed to go to Caesar’s?” 

He hums. 

The memory is near in time, but distant in everything else. It feels like you’ve known him for so much longer. How is it possible to fall into place so easily with someone you just met?

“I was sick. You came over and helped me with the cut.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You take a deep breath. Your mind isn’t polluted by the usual fear that fogs you when you’re forced to explain what’s wrong. Maybe it’s the cloudless sky and the mountains in the morning light. Maybe it’s Logan, strong and steady underneath you. 

“I have this… thing,” you begin, still choosing your words. Saying them out loud hardly gets easier.

He looks at you, still stroking your hair. Slow. Take your time.

“I haven’t really told you about it. It’s… kind of hard to explain.”

But you tell him anyway, in short but sober sentences and thoughtful pauses. You tell him about the pain and tiredness, how you got to know those feelings better than anything else you’ve ever felt. You tell him about the days: bearable most of the time, except for the days when you feel like you’re a shell of who you are, the essence of you gone, like the energy you don’t have. 

There it is, out in the open. The reason why you don’t even want to think about cultivating your overgrown backyard.

You tell him your plan. To be alone. To not face the unthinkable, to not give the unthinkable a face. How your soulmate must hate you for making their bones feel like lead. 

He smiles at that. Then his expression shifts.

“Do you feel it? Your soulmate’s pain.”

That’s his first question. He’s worried you’re hurting more than you should. It makes your heart ache even more. 

You nod, voice quiet. “It’s different from what I have, though.”

“What do you feel?”

“I haven’t felt it. Not for a while. But it used to be here a lot,” you stroke across your knuckles. “Dull. Goes away within seconds. I can ignore it.”

He hums. “Maybe they’re a boxer.”

You smile. “I thought so too.” 

Once you’ve run out of words, you look at him, a stare that wonders if that was alright. If that was too much. 

“Do you want me to go?” you whisper, even if your soul breaks a little at the thought.

He shakes his head. Drags you up so he can kiss you instead.

You melt, hands on his shoulders as your lips meet and part and meet and part like waves on a shore.

He answers in your ear. 

“Never.”

That night, Logan doesn’t sleep when you do. He watches.

You look like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Your arm is draped lightly across his midriff. The way your chest rises and falls smoothly in the moonlight, the lines on your face a little softer. 

He thinks of your body and how it must feel. 

Not just the aches you told him about, but the pain he’s brought to you. 

Could you feel the bullets, the gashes, the stabs? Did you feel the itch when his cells would stitch themselves back together? He replays the way you touched the back of your hand, thinks about how your skin stings each time he takes out his claws. 

How your body fights his battles as if you don’t have your own.

He’ll tell you one day. About who he is and what he used to cut before trees. The weapon he wields before axes. How he’s cursed to know pain over and over again.

He’ll tell you about the day you cut your foot on glass. The way he felt it on his body, the exact same spot, the exact same time. The way it stung for a while before disappearing completely. 

He’ll tell you how, other than the cut, you’ve never hurt him.

He’ll tell you he’ll be happy to shoulder everything for you, even if you weren’t soulmates. Except as luck would have it, you are. 

But whether you’re brought together by fate or free will, it doesn’t matter to him anymore. 

Maybe he can’t move your mountains for you. But at least, with him, you’re not doing it in secret. He wants to be the one that sees you, that tells you how strong you are, especially when you rely on him.

He’ll kiss you and ask if you want him to go, just like that night.

He hopes you’ll say no once again.

Faint - very light or mild; can barely be detected

Feminine - floral fragrances

Fetid - decaying or rotting smell

Fishy - smelling of fish; pungent, strong, unpleasant

Fleecy - shaggy; woolly

Floral - scents associated with flowers

Flowery - fragrance similar to flowers

Foamy - frothy; bubbly

Fragrance - pleasant smell

Fresh - natural smelling, rather than artificial

Fruity - having the flavor or aroma of ripe fruit; sweet

Gaudy - excessively showy

Gingery - pungent; sharp, robust taste or aroma

Globular - spherical

Gossamer - light, delicate, or insubstantial

Grainy - coarse; sandy; unrefined

Heady - very strong aroma

Incense - strong scent

Lemony - tart, piquant citrus notes

Lilac - rich floral scent combining rose with vanilla

Lime - refreshing and zesty citrus smell

Loamy - fragrance with an earthy note

Masculine - earthy fragrances

Medicinal - earthy; often unpleasant

Mildewed - soaked in wetness that has gone stale

Minty - menthol-like smell (e.g., mint tea or peppermint candy)

Misty - mild fragrance, not overpowering

Moist - smell of dew or rainfall

Moldy - damp, fungus-like odor

Musty - old smell; stale and probably moldy

N-R

Nauseating - odor that makes one sick to the stomach

Odorize - changing the scent

Overpowering - too strong of a smell

Peppery - hot, pungent, fiery; stinging

Perfumed - artificial fragrance, not natural-smelling

Pheromone - natural scents

Piercing - loud, shrill; biting

Pine - crisp, refreshing evergreen smell

Piquant - pleasantly pungent, sharp, or spicy taste

Plastic - artificial chemical polymer odor

Poignant - pungently pervasive; piercing

Prickly - stinging; irritating; itchy

Pristine - fresh and clean as or as if new

Pungent - strong fragrance

Putrid - stench of decay

Rancid - spoiled; food that has gone bad

Rank - offensive in odor or flavor

Redolent - having a strong, permeating odor

Repulsive - off-putting odor

Rich - strong, resounding smell that is appealing to the senses

Ripe - brought by aging to full flavor or the best state

Rose - spicy yet sweet fragrance

Rotten - spoiled, rancid, unpalatable

S-Z

Savory - spicy, salty scent that has no elements of sweetness

Sharp - pungent fragrance that permeates the air

Skunky - noxious smell that lingers; sulfuric (like rotten eggs) odor

Smoky - scent of burning wood

Soapy - smooth and slippery

Sour - rancid, sickly sweet smell

Spicy - sharp, heady, can sting or tickle the nose

Spoiled - rotten; something that has “gone bad”

Stale - old, dusty, stagnant odor

Stinking - unpleasant, foul smell

Sweaty - perspiration odor

Sweet - sugary smell

Tangy - having a powerfully stimulating odor or flavor; acidic

Tantalizing - arouses or stimulates desire or interest

Tart - sharp fragrance or taste

Tasteless - arousing no interest; dull

Tempting - having an appeal; enticing

Trace - a tiny amount of fragrance

Velvety - soft, smooth, thick, or richly hued

Vinegary - sour; disagreeable, bitter, or irascible

Whiff - a fleeting scent

Wispy - hint of fragrance in the air

Woodsy - forest-like smell

Zesty - sharp and pleasantly stimulating