"Why? Because you're attracted to him?"
"Because he's..." I struggle for the right words. "He was like family, Sarah. He was at every birthday party, every holiday. He taught me guitar chords and brought me souvenirs from his deployments. And now I look at him and I don't see any of that. I just see..."
"A man?"
"A very attractive man who looks at me like he wants to devour me and then runs away like I'm on fire."
Sarah's grin softens into something more understanding. "Max has been through hell. I don't know all the details, but Miguel says whatever happened overseas changed him. Broke something fundamental. He's been putting himself back together piece by piece, but he's not all the way there yet."
"I know he's struggling. I'm not trying to push him."
"Aren't you?"
The question makes me pause.
Am I pushing him? Showing up at his shop, inserting myself into his community, demanding answers he's not ready to give?
"I just want to understand," I say quietly. "Why he left. Why he stayed away. Why he's so determined to keep me at arm's length when I can see in his eyes that it's the last thing he wants."
Sarah reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Then maybe stop waiting for him to come to you. Sometimes men like Max need someone to meet them where they are, not where we want them to be."
I think about that as I finish my coffee. Think about it as Sarah leaves to meet Miguel for lunch. Think about it as I walk through town, past the bakery and the bookstore and the cheerful bustle of Main Street.
Then I turn my feet toward the edge of town.
Toward Max's shop.
The forge is cold when I push through the door. No heat, no ring of hammer against metal. Just silence and the smell of iron and ash.
"Max?"
No answer.
I should leave. He's clearly not here, and wandering through his space without permission feels like an invasion.
But curiosity pulls me deeper inside.
His sculptures are everywhere. Eagles with wings spread wide, caught mid flight. Bears rising on hind legs, all power and ferocity. Abstract shapes that seem to twist and flow like living things.
They're beautiful. Haunting. Full of an emotion so raw it makes my chest ache.
I trail my fingers over the curve of an eagle's wing and imagine Max bent over his forge, sweat gleaming on his skin as he coaxes beauty from raw metal. The image sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Stop it, Claire.
I force myself to keep moving. Past the forge, past the workbenches, to the stairs that lead to his apartment.
The door at the top is cracked open.
"Max?"
Still no answer. But I hear something. A low sound, almost like a moan.
Fear spikes through me. I take the stairs two at a time and push through the door.
He's on the floor.
Knees drawn up, back against the wall, hands pressed over his ears. His whole body is shaking, and his eyes are squeezed shut like he's trying to block out something only he can see.
