CLARISSE LA RUE

The forge is always loud.

Not just in sound—but in presence.

It breathes heat into the air, thick and unrelenting, wrapping around you the second you step inside. Metal sings against metal in sharp, ringing bursts, sparks flashing briefly before disappearing into the dim glow of the firelight. It’s controlled chaos—structured, deliberate, but still wild in a way that makes it feel alive.

And at the center of it—

Clarisse La Rue.

You spot her immediately.

Of course you do.

She stands near one of the anvils, sleeves pushed up, shirt clinging slightly to her back from sweat, every movement precise and forceful as she brings her hammer down again and again. Each strike lands with intention, echoing through the space like a challenge thrown at the world itself.

She’s been in a mood.

You knew that before you even got here.

It shows in the way she works—harder than necessary, louder than necessary, like she’s trying to burn something out of her system through sheer force alone.

Training must’ve gone rough.

Or maybe someone said the wrong thing.

Or maybe—

It doesn’t matter.

Because you’re here now.

And Clarisse, for all her sharp edges and stubborn pride, has always been something you know how to handle.

Even when she doesn’t want to be handled.

You linger near the entrance for half a second, watching her. Taking her in.

There’s something almost hypnotic about it—the rhythm of her movements, the way her strength translates so effortlessly into control. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t second-guess.

She just does.

It’s… attractive.

Annoyingly so.

You shake the thought away with a quiet smile, adjusting your grip on the cup in your hand before stepping forward, your footsteps light against the ground.

She doesn’t notice you.

Not yet.

Good.

You close the distance quietly, slipping behind her just as she lifts the hammer again, your timing careful, deliberate.

Then—

You wrap your arms around her waist.

“Hi, Clari.”

Your voice is soft, cheerful, a stark contrast to the sharp rhythm of the forge. You press your cheek against her back, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric, the steady rise and fall of her breathing beneath your touch.

“I brought you iced nectar,” you add lightly, lifting the cup slightly so she can see it. “And also my love.”

Her reaction is immediate.

A low grunt escapes her, something that sounds suspiciously like annoyance, her body going still for half a second as your presence interrupts her focus.

But then—

She softens.

It’s subtle.

Barely noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know her.

But you do.

The tension in her shoulders eases, just slightly. The rigid set of her posture loosens, the sharp edge of her presence dulling just enough to make room for you.

She sets the hammer down with a quiet clink.

Turns in your arms.

Her hands come up instinctively, one brushing against your side as she faces you, the other reaching for the cup without hesitation.

“You always bring me stuff like I’m some princess,” she mutters, though there’s no real irritation behind it.

You grin immediately.

“You are a princess.”

The words come easily, light and teasing, your tone bright as you tilt your head slightly, studying her.

“A sweaty, grumpy, sword-smashing princess.”

Her lips twitch.

Just slightly.

And before you can say anything else—

She leans in.

Steals a kiss.

Quick.

Firm.

Enough to cut you off mid-thought, your breath catching slightly as her hand briefly comes up to steady you, like she needed the contact just as much as you did.

“Shut up,” she murmurs against your lips, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth when she pulls back.

You laugh softly, the sound light and easy, your hands lingering against her sides for a moment longer before you step back slightly.

Your gaze drifts.

The forge is scattered with materials—half-finished weapons, tools, scraps of metal stacked in corners. It’s organized chaos, everything exactly where it needs to be for someone who knows how to navigate it.

Your eyes land on a box near the edge of the room.

Heavy metal scraps, by the look of it.

You tilt your head slightly.

Trying to help feels natural.

Instinctive.

Before you really think about it, you slip out of her space and make your way over, bending down to grab the box, fingers curling around the edge as you test the weight.

It’s heavier than you expected.

But manageable.

You start to lift—

“Nope.”

The word cuts through the air instantly.

Sharp.

Certain.

You don’t even get the chance to straighten fully before there’s movement behind you—quick, deliberate, unmistakable.

Clarisse.

She’s there before you can react, her presence sudden and overwhelming in the best way, one hand coming down to press firmly against the box, stopping you mid-motion.

The other—

Finds your waist.

Steadying.

Anchoring.

“Put it down.”

Her voice is low.

Not angry.

But firm in a way that doesn’t leave room for argument.

You pause, blinking slightly as you glance over your shoulder at her.

“I was just trying to help,” you say, a hint of amusement in your tone, though you don’t push against her grip.

Her jaw tightens slightly.

“I know.”

She doesn’t move her hand.

Doesn’t let you lift it.

“You’re not lifting that.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I can—”

“No.”

Immediate.

Final.

Her hand tightens just slightly against your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to emphasize the point.

“Not happening.”

You huff a quiet laugh, straightening slowly and letting the box settle back onto the ground.

“Wow,” you tease lightly, turning fully to face her. “Didn’t know you were so protective.”

She rolls her eyes.

But there’s something there.

Something softer beneath the surface.

“Not protective,” she mutters. “You just don’t need to do that.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying her.

“And you do?”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

Of course she says that.

Of course she believes it.

Clarisse has always carried things on her own—literally and otherwise.

You step closer again, closing the small gap between you, your hand brushing lightly against her arm.

“You know I don’t mind helping,” you say softly.

Her gaze shifts.

Drops briefly to where your hand rests against her.

Then back to your face.

Something flickers there.

Conflict.

Consideration.

Then—

She exhales.

Slow.

Controlled.

“I know,” she says again, quieter this time.

A pause.

Then her hand slides slightly against your waist—not pushing you away, just… holding you there.

“But I’ve got it.”

It’s not a dismissal.

Not really.

It’s something else.

Something closer to—

Let me take care of this.

You don’t argue.

Not this time.

Instead, you smile softly, your fingers tracing lightly along her arm before pulling back.

“Okay,” you concede.

Her shoulders relax.

Just a little.

Victory.

Small.

But noticeable.

You glance at the box again, then back at her.

“Can I at least stay and supervise?” you ask, teasing.

Her smirk returns instantly.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, reaching for her hammer again. “Stand there and look pretty. That’ll help a lot.”

You gasp softly in mock offense.

“I do more than that.”

She glances at you briefly, her expression softening for just a second before she looks away again.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “You do.”

And somehow—

That feels like more than enough.