Wings of the Walker - CoraLee June Page 0,94

on a doll with such attentiveness that I wondered if he had any artistic abilities. It wouldn’t surprise me; Kemper seemed to be able to do anything.

“Where did you learn how to build?” I asked

“My Grandfather taught me; he saw that I liked working with my hands, so when I was old enough to take direction, he gave me little projects that turned into bigger projects. Then I was building an entire town.” Kemper set down the doll he was working on and peered at me with a sigh. “He died a year ago." Kemper’s voice held such sadness and conviction that my heart ached. "He outlived his wife and my mom, survived X, survived the eastern scavenger attacks, all to just peacefully die in his sleep. He was a good man.”

I reached out and grabbed his hand, then gave it a little squeeze, reminding him that I was here.

"Cyler and the others have always been my family. We're like brothers. But I still miss my Grandpa," he said in a choked voice.

“I’m sure he’d be proud of you,” I replied, not knowing what to say.

Kemper coughed then grabbed another toy, his gesture seemed to end the conversation, and we went back to painting in uncomfortable silence.

The beeping of the oven ended our torturous silence, and we both breathed a sigh of relief. He stood, walked over and opened the oven door slightly then said, “It needs a bit longer,” before shutting it. He re-read over the recipe as I watched. Kemper was a perfectionist. Every action, every thought, every word was designed with such intention that I wondered if Kemper ever actually broke out of his carefully constructed comfort zone and walked on the careless side. I briefly remembered the others teasing him about streaking in the town center, but that was under the influence of alcohol.

“Kemp, do you ever let go?” I asked while standing and walking towards him.

“What do you mean?” He stopped looking at the cake and peered up at me in confusion. I knew what a lifetime of striving for perfection could do to a person. I knew how exhausting it could be.

“Do you ever . . . I don’t know, act without thinking?” I questioned, searching for the words.

“No, but lately it’s all I can think about,” he said quietly while biting his lip. “I want to forget the consequences, forget my responsibilities. Forget being perfect.” He looked at me with such intensity I had to catch my breath.

Abandoning the cake in the oven, Kemper looked around the store, and after seeing no one, leaned close. He grabbed my hands and moved them around his waist before nuzzling my hair. “Like right now? I want to forget that we’re in a public place,” he said with an exhale. I felt his hands drift lower until they were wrapped around the back of my thighs. He lifted me up and placed me on the bakery counter. “I want to forget this beautiful dress you’re wearing. I want to rip it to shreds,” he said while tracing a finger down the buttons trailing the front of my dress. He froze at my chest. “I want to sink into the swells of your breasts. I want to drink you in. I want to burn a thousand cakes because we’re too busy doing other things,” he murmured.

The bell to the shop rang and he smiled while biting his lip. He drifted away from me then took the cake out of the oven with care. I watched his precise movements while I struggled to catch my breath. The corner of his lips lifted in amusement at my reaction to him.

He put a wooden toothpick in the batter and slid it out carefully to inspect if it was done, which it was, and he rewarded me with a tender smile. “I brought you something,” he said. His large hands struggled to slip into the pockets of his too-tight jeans, causing me to chuckle and stare at his movements. I slid off the counter then coughed to expel the last bit of lust from my system.

“Ah, here it is!” He pulled out a singular blue-striped birthday candle. I grinned in response. He walked slowly towards me and grabbed my hand. “It bothered me that I ruined your birthday with my burnt-but-not-burnt cake,” he admitted with a hard smile, then peered at me with unspoken sadness. We both knew his cake didn’t ruin my day. Kindle's death and the guilt that followed