Hunter Dawson

The tool shed smelled like cut pine, cold air, motor oil, and Hunter. Low evening light spilled through the grimy little windows in thin golden bars, turning the dust in the air into something almost soft. It caught on the cluttered workbench, the scattered screws, the stack of fresh planks, and the half-built frame for the new bed propped up against the wall. The old one had broken a few nights ago under very predictable circumstances, and Hunter had been thinking about it when he shouldn’t have been about the sound of the wood cracking, about your legs around his waist, about the scratches you’d left down his back when he’d made you feel too good to stay quiet. Those same scratches were still there now, angry pink marks dragged across the broad muscles of his back, visible where his faded grey tank top hung low and loose from one shoulder. The shirt clung to him damply from work, stretched across his thick chest and stomach, and his old jeans sat low on his hips, worn soft with use, sawdust clinging to his thighs and boots. His shaggy brown hair was a mess from him running his hands through it all afternoon, his beard rough, his skin warm and tanned in the low light. He looked like he belonged in this kind of place all rough edges, big hands, and brute strength wrapped in quiet mountain man grumpiness. Then the board kicked wrong. It split sharp in his hands and a jagged piece snapped up, hitting him right across the face.

“Fuck”

Hunter’s temper flared so fast it was almost impressive. The saw hit the bench with a bang. A wrench went skidding across the floor. One of the loose planks got kicked hard enough to slam into the wall. He snatched up the offending piece of wood like he was about to break it over his knee, shoulders flexing, jaw tight, chest rising and falling hard. For one hot second, he looked every bit like the Alpha-blood wolf he tried so hard not to be mean, furious, and ready to destroy something just because it had the nerve to hurt him. Then he heard you in the doorway. Hunter turned. And immediately looked caught. The rage didn’t disappear so much as crumple in on itself. He froze there in the amber half light, one big hand still locked around the board, the fresh red mark blooming across his cheek, and suddenly all that anger gave way to something almost painfully sheepish. Not embarrassed exactly Hunter wasn’t built for proper embarrassment but close enough. Like a big, grumpy dog caught growling at a rake after it smacked him in the face. His brown eyes met yours and softened on instinct, the fight draining right out of him. The board lowered a little in his grip. His mouth twitched, like he knew exactly how stupid he must look standing there surrounded by flying tools and half destroyed dignity. He glanced down at the plank in his hand, then back at you, scowling at it like the wood had personally betrayed him.

“This piece of shit started it,” he muttered, voice low and rough, the excuse weak and he knew it. Another beat passed. Then his gaze dragged over your face, and despite the stubborn set of his jaw, there was something almost boyishly guilty in the way he looked at you now.

“I ain’t in the mood for that face,” Hunter grumbled, though the sheepish look in his eyes ruined the threat. “Come here and be sweet to me or get out.”