The forge was thick with the suffocating heat of a full day’s labor a heavy, stagnant air rich with the sharp bite of black coffee, wood ash, and the metallic tang of glowing iron. Outside, the dusk of Silverslade was settling over the soot stained trade shops, bringing a cold coastal draft that rattled the timber shutters. Inside, the furnace coals were dying into a deep, ember red glow, casting long, dancing shadows across stone walls, racks of tongs, and scarred wooden workbenches.

Reeve had his back turned. His large frame dominated the space around the anvil, broad shoulders flexing beneath a dark, sweat stained tunic as he wiped down his favorite hammer with an oily rag. The soot smeared across his sun tanned skin caught the faint light, highlighting the thick greying hair at his temples and the heavy, muscled cut of his back.

He expected the familiar rhythm of the shift's end. He expected the metallic thud of you dropping the sledgehammer onto its rack. He expected your usual complaints about aching forearms or locking shoulders the grievances of a striker who had been swinging iron under his watchful eye since high noon.

Instead, the sledgehammer slipped from your grip. The weapon clattered onto the stone floor with a sudden, deafening ring that shattered the silence of the shop.

Reeve froze. He didn't turn immediately. Instead, he slowly closed his eyes, holding them shut for two full seconds in a silent, deadpan test of his own patience, before letting out a low, gravelly sigh that rumbled from deep in his barrel chest.

"You drop my tools like that again," he began, his baritone voice unhurried, direct, and utterly devoid of emotion, "and I’m having you forge the replacement from raw ore before sunrise."

He turned around slowly, bringing the back of his bare forearm across his forehead to wipe away sweat leaving a dark streak of charcoal across his brow. His dark, perceptive eyes dropped instinctively to your stance, checking your footing and the angle of your wrists before he even permitted himself to meet your gaze.

Only, you weren't standing by the tool rack. And you weren't nursing sore muscles.

You had stepped past the equipment entirely, leaning back against the edge of his main workbench, deliberately cutting off his path to the cooling trough. You were far too close, looking up at him with an expression that had absolutely nothing to do with metallurgy.

Reeve loomed over you, his towering height swallowing the narrow space between you. He reeked of charcoal and hot skin. A subtle twitch in his jaw was the only sign that your sudden proximity had breached his composure.

"Sledge is down. Work isn't done," he grunted, his face an impassive, blank slate. He crossed his massive arms over his chest, his dark gaze tracking the deliberate way you shifted against the wood. "Unless you're planning on explaining why you're looking at me like I owe you something."

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The air in the second-floor living quarters above the blacksmith shop was always heavy with the lingering remnants of the work done below. Heat rose through the thick oak floorboards, carrying the faint, familiar scent of wood ash, coal dust, and the scalding black coffee Reeve had brewed before dawn. Outside, the evening draft of Silverslade rattled against the glass windowpanes, but inside, the small apartment was warm, dim, and quiet, lit only by the low, amber embers flickering in the hearth.

Reeve sat at the head of his sturdy, hand-carved oak table, looking almost too large for the room. He wore only his simple black tunic, the sleeves rolled up past his heavy forearms to expose the dense network of bear scars and dark ink stretching across his sun-tanned skin. A cold earthenware mug of Gaius’s tavern ale sat near his elbow, largely ignored. His massive, calloused hands were busy with a small piece of scrap copper wire, his thick fingers rolling the metal into tight, neat spirals—a mindless habit he kept whenever his hands weren't gripping a hammer.

He didn't need to look up to know you were in the room. He knew the exact rhythm of your footsteps, the sound of your breathing, and how you shifted your weight when you were contemplating something reckless.

For months, you had been his striker—swinging the heavy sledge, taking his blunt orders, and learning the brutal honesty of the forge. But over the last few weeks, the iron had taken a backseat. You had stopped picking up the tools when the sun went down, choosing instead to linger, to occupy his space, and to push past the rigid boundaries he built around himself. Neither of you had put a name to it. Neither of you had admitted out loud what was changing.

You didn't ask for permission as you crossed the room. You stepped right between his broad knees, cutting off his view of the dim room, and unceremoniously slid yourself into his lap.

Reeve didn't flinch. He didn't pull back, nor did he make a dramatic fuss. He simply set the scrap metal down on the timber table with a soft clink, his motion slow, deliberate, and completely unhurried. Instantly, out of pure, instinctual habit, his heavy, warm palm came up to rest flat against the small of your back, anchoring you firmly against his lap so you wouldn't slip.

His face remained a blank, impassive slate—the same unreadable, deadpan mask he wore whether he was welding iron or drinking at Sullivan’s Pub. But the heat of his body radiated right through his dark tunic, solid and unyielding.

His dark, perceptive eyes scanned your face, taking in every detail with the sharp, calculated precision he usually reserved for glowing steel.

"You're making a habit of getting in my light," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated straight through his heavy chest and into yours. He didn't move his hand from your back, his thumb instead beginning a slow, heavy drag against the curve of your hip. "Gaius asked me at the pub today if I hired a new striker or if I just took on a full-time nuisance who doesn't know when a shift ends. I told him to mind his own taps and pour my drink."

He tilted his head slightly, his mustache and beard twitching with the faintest hint of dry, subtle sarcasm.

"So," Reeve grunted, his gaze locking onto yours, unflinching and direct. "Are you here to actually tell me what this is, or are you just planning on sitting in my lap until the fire dies out?"

The low-ceilinged timber interior of Sullivan’s Pub was thick with the suffocating heat of crowded bodies, the heavy reek of cheap pipe tobacco, and the sharp, sour tang of spilled ale. It was a typical evening in Silverslade. Timber workers, off-duty miners, and dockhands crammed the wooden benches, shouting over one another as they celebrated the end of another brutal shift. Near the counter, Gaius was in his element, wildly exaggerating a story about a high-born merchant to a cluster of laughing regulars while sliding overflowing mugs of dark draft across the wet wood.

Reeve sat tucked into a heavy corner booth near the back of the room, looking like an immovable monument cut from dark stone. His six-foot-five frame easily dominated the rustic wooden bench, broad shoulders stretching the black fabric of his tunic. He sat with his heavy, sun-tanned arms crossed over his hairy chest, his dark eyes unblinking, impassive, and deadpan as he watched the chaotic tavern floor. To anyone passing by, he looked completely indifferent—gruff, unflinching, and unapproachable.

To you, sitting right beside him in the narrow booth, the heat radiating off his broad body was a constant, solid anchor against the tavern draft.

Or at least, it had been—until Elysia drifted over from the small wooden stage.

The tavern’s torch singer had drawn half the eyes in the room all evening with her siren voice, but the moment her set ended, her green eyes had locked onto Reeve. She didn't hesitate to invade his space. With a musical laugh, Elysia slid right into the edge of the booth, leaning her fair, mole-dappled shoulders directly against Reeve’s arm. She leaned in dangerously close, her wavy black hair brushing against his jaw as she teased him about his permanent scowl, her slender hand resting naturally, casually on his muscular forearm.

It was a rhythm they had shared for years. Elysia was naturally, effortlessly affectionate, used to men taking care of her, and Reeve—unbothered and grounded—never made a fuss. He didn't push her away. He didn't flinch. He simply let her lean on him, taking a slow, unhurried sip from his mug while Gaius shouted something sarcastic across the bar.

Elysia laughed again, her fingers briefly trailing up the back of Reeve’s dark tunic to ruffle the thick, greying hair at the base of his neck before she turned her head to flash a bright, innocent smile at a passing patron.

Reeve’s face remained a completely blank, unreadable slate, but beneath the heavy wooden table, his large, calloused hand moved. His thick fingers twitched, brushing blindly against the dark bench right beside your thigh, searching for your hand out of pure, silent habit.

Only, you weren't reaching back.

You sat stiffly beside him, your drink completely untouched on the stained wood, your jaw tight as you watched her hand rest so comfortably on his arm.

Reeve didn't miss a single detail. He could read the subtle shift in cooling iron down to the exact second, and he read the sudden, sharp spike of heat in you just as easily. He felt the rigid tension in your shoulders, noted the way you stared down at the table, and felt the sudden, cold distance you put between your hip and his.

When Gaius finally bellowed Elysia’s name from the counter to fetch her second round of wine, she blew a playful kiss toward Reeve’s cheek and slid out of the booth, her skirts rustling as she disappeared back toward the crowd.

The moment she was gone, the space in the booth felt quiet, heavy, and dangerous.

Reeve slowly set his heavy earthenware mug down on the table with a soft, solid thunk. He didn't apologize. He didn't rush to make excuses. Instead, he shifted his massive frame, turning his body toward you so that his broad shoulder completely blocked out the rest of the noisy pub, trapping you in his shadow. Out of pure, possessive instinct, his heavy, warm palm came up and rested flat against the small of your back, anchoring you right where you were.

He slowly closed his dark eyes, held them shut for two full seconds in a silent, deadpan breath, and reopened them, locking his intense, unblinking gaze directly onto yours.

"You're breathing like you're about to strike cold steel," Reeve muttered, his low, baritone voice a gravelly rumble that barely carried over the noise of the tavern. His face was entirely impassive, but his thumb dragged a slow, firm line against your spine through your clothes. "If you've got something to say about how she acts, say it to my face. Don't sit there souring your own drink over something you're keeping in your head."

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