His eyes softened as he pulled a stool beside the main workbench and gestured for me to join him there. I slid onto the seat, heart fluttering as he stood behind me, resting one hand lightly on the back of my chair.
It wasn’t intimate. Notintentionallyintimate, at least.
But Goddess Mother—it felt like the kind of touch that branded itself on skin.
“Here,” he murmured, selecting a block of wood with a grain like warm honey. “This is good for beginners. Soft enough to shape, but it won’t split too easily.”
He placed it gently in my palms and the wood was warm from his hands.
“What are we carving?” I asked.
“A leaf,” he said. “Simple lines. Something natural.”
“A leaf,” I repeated, smiling. “How poetic of you.”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Not poetic,” but the shy way he ducked his eyes betrayed him. He picked up a small carving knife and placed it on the bench in front of me. My pulse jumped.
“Oh, I get a knife,” I teased. “Big step.”
“You get a knife,” he confirmed dryly. “But only if you promise not to stab yourself.”
Ribbon croaked loudly.
Savla grunted. “Or Ribbon.”
“Or you?” I added with a smirk.
He leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of my ear in the tiniest breath of contact.
“You cantryto stab me if you’d like,” he murmured. And then I forgot how to breathe.
He straightened like nothing happened, and guided my fingers to the handle of the knife, his palm brushing mine. Heat shot straight up my arm.
“Hold it like this,” he said softly, his hands covering mine to adjust my grip. “Don’t force it. Let the blade do the work.” His chest brushed my back as he leaned in.
The room shrank to just us, but then Ribbon croaked impatiently and hopped onto the workbench with a wet splat. Savla jerked, and the knife nearly slipped.
We both yelled, “No—!”
Ribbon froze, one webbed hand inches from the woodblock.
“Ribbon,” I whispered in my most soothing voice. “This is not for toads.”
He blinked and then sneezed directly onto the wood. Savla’s groan of despair was loud in the quiet room.
“Beautiful,” I said brightly, patting the wood dry with my sleeve. “Extra moisture for carving.”
“Hanna,” Savla muttered, “don’t encourage him.”
But he was smiling—reallysmiling. It was soft at the edges and slightly disbelieving. The kind of smile that made my chest feel like warm bread rising too fast.
I turned back to the blade. “Okay. Show me again?”
His hands came around mine once more. Slow, patient and completely trusting. Under his guidance, the knife slipped across the wood—clean, gently strokes revealing the first hint of a curve.
“There,” he murmured. “Good.”
Praise from him was dangerous. It was straight to my head... andotherplaces. Ribbon hopped closer, decided that he needed attention, and smacked his giant head against Savla’s hip.
