When I take a sip, I immediately understand his warning. The coffee is indeed strong enough to restart my heart.
“Good?” he asks, watching my reaction with obvious amusement. The corner of his mouth tilts up, like he’s waiting for me to crack.
“It’s like drinking pure productivity,” I manage, setting down the cup carefully. “I may not sleep for a week.”
His eyes glint. “So if I buy you a second cup, I should expect a full legal brief on my desk by dinner?”
“Careful. I don’t draft briefs without a retainer agreement.”
“Fair,” he concedes with a grin, then gestures at my cup. “But you should know, the owner’s from Sicily. His grandmother’s recipe. He considers it a personal insult if you add sugar.”
I lift a brow. “So he’s basically the espresso mafia?”
Forge chuckles, low and warm. “Exactly. Order a latte here and you might not make it out alive.”
We settle into conversation easily, and I’m struck again by how comfortable this feels. No awkward silences, no need to fill every moment with chatter. Just two people getting to know each other over dangerously strong coffee.
“Tell me about the woodworking,” I say. “How did you get into it?”
His face lights up in a way that transforms his careful expression into something genuinely enthusiastic. “There was an elder who taught me—I called him Grandfather, though he wasn’t blood family.”
A serious expression clouds his face for a moment, then he banishes it and continues. “Back home, before the Rift, he wasconsidered a master craftsman. When he came through, he couldn’t bring his tools, but he brought his knowledge. I was lucky enough to find him when I was a youth, before I drifted into trouble.”
“That must have been difficult. Starting over with nothing.”
“It was. But he always said that skills live in your hands and your heart, not in your workshop.” Forge runs his thumb along the edge of his cup, and I notice the small scars and calluses that speak of years working with tools. “He died about five years ago, but I still hear his voice every time I pick up a chisel.”
There’s something in his tone—love, loss, reverence—that makes my chest tighten. “He sounds like he was an amazing man.”
“He was. He would have liked you, I think.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, more to steady myself than anything, that simple praise landing somewhere I didn’t know was unguarded.
“You’re direct. He appreciated people who said what they meant.” Forge meets my eyes. “He also had a soft spot for anyone who could make him laugh, even when they were trying to be serious.”
“Are you saying I’m funny when I don’t mean to be?”
“I’m saying you have a way of looking at the world that’s both cynical and hopeful at the same time. It’s… refreshing.”
The observation catches me off guard. Most people see only the cynicism, the steel shell built from years of watching love die in depositions.
“I’m not sure about the hopeful part,” I say carefully.
“No? Then what changed? Why are you here?”
The direct question lands hard, but it deserves a direct answer. The silence stretches. I can almost hear the walls I’ve built around myself creaking under the strain.
Forge doesn’t rush to fill the gap. He leans forward slightly, muscular, tattooed forearms braced on the table, amber eyes steady on mine as if he’s willing to wait all day for the truth. That quiet patience unnerves me more than pressure ever could.
“A few things. Time. Riley. And last night. Being with you made me remember what it feels like to laugh and be listened to without someone wanting to fix me. I… think I might want to try again—carefully.
The words hang there, deliberate and terrifying. When did I make that decision? When did wanting this—him—stop being something I was avoiding and start being something I meant? The answer hums through me before I can second-guess it: this is what I want.
“My divorce was finalized eighteen months ago. My ex decided the problem was me being ‘too career-focused,’ like ambition and affection couldn’t share the same space.”
Forge’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. “And you believed him?”
“Maybe. Work takes up most of my life. I’m driven, obsessive, the kind of person who cancels plans the second a case heats up.” My fingers worry the edge of my napkin, a nervous habit I thought I’d broken.
