Tie Me Up: Chapter One

 It started with a camera, a stubborn man, and a little bit of rope.

What should’ve been a quick photoshoot turns into a slow, burning game of control and surrender—where one curious touch becomes a challenge neither of them can walk away from.

Brynn came to capture “real men of the wilderness.”

Wade just wanted to be left alone.

Now they’re both tangled in something that feels a little too real to be pretend.

🔥 Falling for Flannel: Tie Me Up

Flannel. Firewood. And a man who learns that the hardest thing to untie isn’t the rope—it’s himself.

Chapter One 

Brynn

The Shot That Started It

The GPS gives up three miles back, so by the time I reach the gravel pull-off that apparently qualifies as a driveway, I’m relying on blind faith and a prayer. Pine air fills the car when I roll down the window. It’s sharp, clean, a little damp—and the sound of my tires crunching on rock echoes against the trees like I’m interrupting something sacred.

“This is it,” I mutter, double-checking the email on my phone. Wade Callahan. Real men of the wilderness. The assignment brief reads like a Hallmark fever dream: gruff but photogenic logger, cooperative and ruggedly charming.

“Cooperative, gruff, photogenic,” I say to no one. “Two out of three would be a miracle.”

The magazine’s trying a new “authentic lifestyle” series—men in their natural habitats, unfiltered and unposed. Which sounded simple enough until my editor added, “We found one who’ll actually let you take pictures of him.” That last part apparently required divine intervention, or at least his sister’s husband, the town mayor, cashing in a personal favor.

I grab my camera bag, tucking the strap across my shoulder like armor. This is what I live for, capturing real people, coaxing truth out of stubborn silence, and finding the story behind the stare. The reluctant ones are my favorite. They think they’re unreadable, unmovable, until the lens finds what they’re hiding.

The breeze carries the scent of fresh-cut wood and something darker—smoke, maybe. Then I hear it: the steady thwack… thwack… thwack of an axe splitting through log after log somewhere beyond the tree line. Rhythmic. Certain. Unhurried.

Well, that answers one question.

I lock the car, sling the bag higher on my shoulder, and follow the sound. Branches snap under my boots, sunlight dappling through spruce needles. The rhythm gets louder, until I can almost feel it in my ribs.

Time to meet the miracle.

The sound of chopping grows louder until the trees open into a clearing and there he is.

Wade Callahan.

Every swing of his axe looks effortless, like he was born doing it. Broad shoulders under a red flannel, sleeves rolled high enough to show forearms lined with muscle and sawdust. Jeans fitted, boots planted wide, focus absolute. The kind of quiet strength that doesn’t need an audience but gets one anyway.

Sunlight filters through the pines, catching the curl of steam from his breath and the pale flecks of sawdust clinging to his shirt. The air smells like pine, split wood, and something faintly metallic… sweat and effort and earth.

My camera’s already in my hand before I realize I’ve lifted it, thumb brushing the power switch as the lens cap clicks free. One breath later, the shutter fires, one, two, three times—just as he swings again.

He stops mid-motion, axe still buried in the wood. Slowly, he turns.

And just like that, the temperature drops ten degrees.

“No.”

Flat. Final. The kind of voice that doesn’t need volume to make its point.

“Hi to you too,” I say, lowering the camera. “You must be Wade.”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Brynn.” I flash him a grin that’s equal parts charm and challenge. “The one your sister guilt-tripped into a photoshoot.”

“Thought she guilt-tripped me.” He grips the axe handle, leans his weight on it. “Told me it was for some town promotion thing. Didn’t mention this.”

“This being what… professional artistry?”

He raises a brow. “This being city people with cameras who think I’m a zoo exhibit.”

“That’s fine. I brought snacks and I’m great with wild animals.”

He exhales hard through his nose, a small sound that could be annoyance or amusement. Hard to tell.

I lift the camera again and snap a few frames. His scowl deepens.

“Hold that,” I say lightly. “My editor loves a man who looks like he could bench-press a cabin.”

He watches me fire off a few more shots and mutters, “You’re wasting film.”

“Oh, I shoot digital,” I counter. “I can waste all I want.”

The corners of his mouth twitch—barely. A ghost of a smirk, there and gone. He looks down at the wood again, adjusts his grip, and swings. The axe bites deep with a clean thock, splitting the round perfectly in half.

“Perfect,” I murmur, half to myself.

He pauses mid-reset, glances up. “You done yet?”

“Not even close.”

The next few minutes blur into a rhythm: him chopping, me shooting, the steady beat of wood against blade matching my heartbeat. He doesn’t pose. He doesn’t need to. Every movement is instinct, efficient and grounded, and it’s so much better than any staged smile could ever be.

The camera captures it all. The flex, the focus, even the quiet concentration in his eyes.

When I lower the lens, he’s watching me. Not smiling, not frowning. Just watching.

I take a small step closer, my boots crunching against dirt. “You know,” I say, adjusting the focus again, “you haven’t actually told me to leave yet.”

He studies me for a long, unreadable moment. Then—without a word—he goes back to chopping.

That’s as close to permission as I’m going to get.

I lift the camera again, smiling behind the lens. “Great,” I whisper. “Now, let’s see if we can get you to smile.”

The shutter clicks. And for half a second, I swear he almost does.

He’s not exactly the cooperative type, but he hasn’t thrown me off his property yet. That’s progress.

“Okay,” I say, stepping a little closer, camera lifted. “Let’s try something different.”

He gives me a look that says everything I’m doing is wrong, but doesn’t move. Which is as close to consent as I’m going to get.

“Chin toward me,” I direct.

He obeys… barely. It’s more of a reluctant tilt than an actual pose, like I’ve asked him to perform the world’s most exhausting task.

“Good,” I murmur, snapping a few shots. “Now eyes up. Perfect. You look like you’re about to be on the cover of Primal Woodsman Weekly.”

That earns me the faintest twitch of a smirk. Barely there, but it’s something.

“Next one’s easy,” I say, lowering the camera just enough to point. “Loosen the top buttons on your flannel.”

His brows draw together. “Why?”

“For ventilation,” I say, deadpan. “And art.”

He huffs, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, but his fingers find the buttons anyway. The fabric parts slightly, revealing a chest dusted with hair, the sharp line of his collarbone. It’s an innocent enough motion, until it isn’t.

I swallow hard and bring the camera back up, pretending that didn’t just short-circuit my brain. “Great. Now hold that.”

He swings again, deliberate and focused, the axe splitting through the log cleanly. He’s comfortable like this, moving and working without thinking about the camera or me.

“Don’t stop,” I say, lifting the lens. “It’s good. Real.”

He grunts something noncommittal, sets another round on the stump, and keeps going. Every motion is muscle memory: controlled, precise, efficient. And somehow, every one of them looks like it belongs on a magazine cover.

After a few more frames, I lower the camera. “Okay, hold there,” I say, stepping closer. “Let’s try one standing still. Rest the axe on your shoulder, yeah, like that.”

He hesitates, then obeys. His eyes stay fixed on the blade instead of me, jaw tight like he’s trying not to react.

“Look at me,” I murmur. “Not the axe.”

His gaze lifts, slow and steady. 

“Careful,” I add with a grin, “you keep swinging that thing while I’m this close, one of us is getting hurt.”

His eyes flick down to the space between us, then back up, slow and deliberate.

“You’re the dangerous one,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t quite sound like a joke.

The world seems to narrow to that single line between us.

“Please,” I say, mentally shaking myself out of the stupor this man is putting me in. Then snap another shot. “You’re holding an axe.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “And I still think it’s you I should be worried about.”

A gust of wind kicks up, flipping his collar against his neck. Without thinking, I step in, smoothing it back into place. My fingers linger just a little too long against the flannel, close enough to feel the shift of his breath.

Neither of us moves right away.

Then the shutter clicks again, shattering the moment.

The air’s changed. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Heavier between us now, like the moment right before a storm. He’s not smiling, but he’s not scowling either. He’s just watching.

I lower the camera, pretending to check settings while remembering how to breathe. “Let’s try something different,” I say, stepping back to reframe him near the woodpile.

“Roll up your sleeves a little.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“Texture.”

He arches a brow. “That a professional term?”

“Completely.”

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile, but he shrugs rolling the sleeves up anyway. The movement’s unhurried, fluid in that way men never realize they are. As he does this, the flannel pulls tight across his shoulders. There’s a faint white scar along his collarbone, the kind of mark that tells a story no one gets to hear.

“Okay,” I murmur, lifting the camera. “Now… open the shirt a little more.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“Texture.”

He snorts. “Right.”

“Three frames,” I promise. “Swear on my press credentials.”

There’s a long pause, like he’s deciding if I’m worth humoring. Then, with a low exhale, his fingers move to the buttons. The fabric parts just enough to tease the skin underneath. It’s warm gold under the pale light, a dusting of hair over muscle, the slow rise and fall of his chest.

I shift to get a better angle. My knuckles brush his sternum when I adjust the collar for light, and the contact jolts through me like static.

Neither of us says anything.

The camera hangs forgotten around my neck for a beat too long before I lift it again. My voice comes out low. “Perfect. Hold it.”

He’s still watching me. Not the lens: me.

“Take the shot,” he says quietly. It sounds less like permission and more like a dare.

So I do. Rapid clicks echo through the clearing, mechanical and shallow, nothing compared to the pulse hammering in my throat. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. He just stands there, chest bare to the cold, eyes molten and unguarded.

“If you’re going to look at me like that,” he says finally, voice low and rough, “you should warn a man.”

I lower the camera, my mouth curving before I can stop it. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Doesn’t seem like regulation protocol to me.”

“Good thing I don’t follow a lot of rules. You don’t strike me as the rulebook type either.”

The grin that almost breaks through doesn’t reach his eyes, but it softens something in him.

I take another photo, one last frame to catch the shift, the flicker, the unspoken thing neither of us is ready to name. The shot hums with tension, man against wild, control against curiosity.

I know before I lower the camera that it’s the one I’ll keep.

The quiet settles thick between us, full of breath and pine and something else entirely. His shirt’s still open, his eyes are still on me, and the air hums with that barely-there awareness that could tip either way. Like into laughter or something that would burn through both of us.

I should keep shooting. I should step back, re-compose, focus on light ratios or shutter speed. Anything but the man in front of me. Instead, my gaze drifts toward the edge of the shed where a coil of rope hangs from a nail, sun-bleached and frayed.

Texture. Movement. A distraction.

“Hold up,” I say, lowering the camera. “I’ve got an idea.”

He doesn’t move. “That sounds dangerous.”

I grin and reach for the rope. The fibers are rough, faintly damp from the air. “Visual metaphor,” I explain, looping it between my fingers. “Strength restrained. Art stuff.”

He huffs, almost smiling. “You photographers and your metaphors.”

“Just humor me.”

When I step back to him, he stays still, though I catch the faint lift of his brow—the kind of warning a quieter man gives before he decides whether to play along. I reach for his wrist. The pulse there beats steady, warm against my fingers.

The rope brushes his skin, coarse against the smooth inside of his arm. I wrap it loosely, two fingers of space between the coil and his wrist, and tug once to test the light. “Perfect,” I murmur. “It’s just a prop.”

“Sure it is.”

I glance up, expecting the smirk. Instead I find his eyes already on me, steady and unreadable, the kind of gaze that sees too much.

“You ever use rope for real, Brynn?”

The question lands low in my stomach. I try for professional, but my voice betrays me. “Guess that depends who’s holding it.”

His mouth curves, not into a smile exactly, but something darker. “Fair answer.”

The camera hangs forgotten against my chest. The breeze slides between us, stirring the loose ends of the rope, brushing hair across my cheek. I start to step back, but his fingers flex beneath the coil, stopping me. Just enough that I feel the choice—mine or his—hover in the air.

“You should probably let me go,” I whisper.

“Probably,” he says. His voice roughens, the word stretching into something that isn’t permission.

Then the space between us simply disappears.

The camera thuds softly against his chest when I move. The kiss starts quick, a spark caught too close to kindling. His mouth is hot, unhurried, and a little rough, like he’s still testing how this feels. He tilts his head, deepening it until the world narrows to heat and heartbeat and the faint scrape of stubble against my skin.

The rope shifts as he lifts his hand, the movement tightening the slack enough that I feel it slide against my wrist before falling free again. His other hand finds the curve of my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he’s memorizing shape instead of claiming it.

I breathe against him, dizzy with the suddenness of it. He’s all steady lines and quiet control, while I’m the one that feels off balance, out of control. I’m also the one who asked for this; at least, that’s what the look in his eyes says when we break apart.

He stays close, forehead resting against mine, breath uneven. “Didn’t see that in your shot list.”

“Guess some things aren’t planned.”

The rope dangles between us, brushing against his thigh. I trace the mark it left on his wrist. There’s a faint red line, and my thumb lingers there longer than it should.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks quietly.

“Not even a little.”

His laugh is more breath than sound. It rolls through me anyway.

Neither of us moves. The only noise is the distant creak of the trees and the soft sound of the camera swaying against my chest. I ease the loop loose, letting the rope fall, but my fingers stay against his skin.

“Guess I owe you a warning next time,” I murmur.

“Guess you better make good on that.”

He says it softly, almost smiling, but the way his hand slides up the back of my neck isn’t a joke. He holds me there for a second, thumb tracing the edge of my jaw, before he steps away.

Cold air rushes in where he’d been.

I should lift the camera again, capture the aftermath, the red line on his wrist, the hint of color high on his cheek—but I don’t. I just stand there, the rope in one hand and my pulse in the other.

The camera rocks gently against me, lens catching a stray glint of sun. It clicks once, unprompted, an accidental shutter that startles the silence.

He doesn’t look away and I don’t untie the rest of the knot.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for chapter two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix