Emory
Anhourlater,thestorm has settled into a steady drift of fat, quiet snowflakes. The kind that looks pretty in movies and completely ruins travel plans in real life.
Pike stands at the window, arms crossed, evaluating the snowfall like it's a problem he can physically intimidate into stopping. Judging by his expression, the snow is winning.
I sit on the couch, wrapped in the blanket he loaned me. The fire has burned down to glowing embers, filling the cabin with a soft, golden warmth. My clothes are dry, my fingertips have thawed, and I am surprisingly comfortable on Pike's couch, even with the grumpy mountain man brooding a few feet away.
He glances at me, his gaze lingering on me longer than necessary, his eyes a deep, unreadable shade of brown flecked with amber in the morning light. He looks like he's still deciding what to do with me, since he’s stuck with me for the night.
I break the silence first. "Is it all right if I see the workshop?"
He studies my face, searching for motives. Not unfair, since I came up here sniffing around for a story. But something about Pike makes me want to soften my intentions. Not lie, not hide anything… but maybe let the story go for now and just get to know the person in front of me.
Finally, he nods. "Stay close. There are things that can burn you."
"I'll be careful."
"I'm not worried about you being careful," he mutters. "I'm worried about you getting hurt. The workshop is dangerous."
The words are quiet, almost reluctant. My pulse stutters.
Pike pushes open the interior door that connects the cabin to the workshop, and heat rolls over us immediately.
The workshop smells like warm metal, wood smoke, and something faintly mineral. Shelves line the walls, filled with ornaments in every stage of cooling. Some brilliant with color, others subtle, shimmering only when the light hits just right. Red swirls like frozen wine. Deep greens that echo evergreen boughs. Silver threads that catch the glow like moonlight on fresh snow.
A furnace glows in the back of the room, steady and bright, like a second sun. The heat from it presses against my skin, insistent but not unpleasant. Pike steps up to it with ease, his body relaxed, his movements familiar, fluid.
"This is where you feel at home," I say quietly.
He gives a short nod.
I walk closer to a display shelf, careful not to touch anything without permission. One ornament catches my eye, swirling with deep blues and gold, like a captured piece of night sky.
"It's beautiful," I whisper.
Pike glances over, and something in his face softens. "That one came out better than I expected."
There's a humility in his tone that surprises me. For someone with so much talent, he's almost shy about it.
He sets a long metal rod—a punty, I think they're called—on the table, checking the furnace temperature with practiced precision. "Do you want to watch?"
"You’re going to make something?"
"Yes," he says, with a touch of amusement. "But you’re just observing. No touching. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agree.
He motions for me to come closer. I step to his side, feeling the heat wash over me in waves. I'm suddenly very aware of how large he is. How steady. How careful he is with every movement.
He dips the rod into the furnace and gathers a glob of glowing molten glass. It looks like molten honey, bright and mesmerizing, orange fading to gold at the edges. He rolls it slowly on a steel table, the motion hypnotic. Shapes it without rushing.
I can feel the energy coming off him. Not just physical heat, butfocus. Craft. Something almost intimate.
He notices the way I'm watching and gives me a sideways look. "Here. Hold this part of the pipe."
I grip the cool metal near the end. He stands behind me to steady my hands, close enough that his chest almost brushes my back. His breath warms the side of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with temperature.
"This part moves slowly," he murmurs. "Glass responds to patience."
