Five years. Five years of lingering touches, of making sure she knows I notice her, of giving her every signal short of skywritingit above the forge. Five years of her leaning in and pulling back. Reaching for my hand and then shoving hers in her pockets.
She did it again this morning. That moment when her breath caught and her eyes went soft—and then the wall came up. The same wall she used to hide behind when Owen was making her miserable. That forced brightness. The deflection. The quick exit before anyone could ask if she was okay.
She still won’t let herself see what’s right in front of her. Or maybe she does see it. Maybe that’s exactly why she ran.
I asked today. She said she was fine. She wasn’t fine.
Back then, I had an excuse for not pushing—she wasn’t mine to protect, she was Owen’s girlfriend, and friends don’t overstep. Now? She’s been free for three months, and I’m still standing here letting her run.
I slam the hammer down again.
“You’re going to pound that into dust if you keep going.”
I look up. Isabel, my sister, leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
“What are you doing here?” I set down the hammer.
“Checking on my big brother.” She pushes off the frame and comes inside. “And apparently I was right to be concerned, because you’re murdering that poor piece of metal.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re obsessing.” She picks up one of the finished fireplace tools and examines it with the critical eye she inherited from our mother. “These are beautiful, Mateo. But there’s like six sets here. Are you building inventory or avoiding something?”
She’s not wrong about the inventory. Six fireplace tool sets I don’t have orders for. That’s hours of coal and iron I can’t bill anyone for, and the Hendersons’ custom railing is due in a matter of days.
But the rhythm helps. The heat helps. And it’s easier to shape metal than figure out what to do about the woman whose breath catches every time I get too close.
“Can’t it be both?”
“Not usually.” She smiles and steps closer, her expression softening. “How’s Sadie?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The woman who has you out here before dawn, stress-forging fireplace tools like your life depends on it.” She sets the tool down. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” I grab a rag and start wiping down my tools, avoiding her eyes.
“Bullshit.” She waits until I look at her. “You remember the day she moved here?”
I do. She walked into the forge on a Sunday afternoon, sunburned and out of breath, asking if I knew where to find the bookshop. Her hair was falling out of her ponytail, and she had a box of books in her arms. She smiled at me like I was the first person in this town who didn’t make her nervous.
I forgot how to speak for a solid ten seconds.
“What about it?”
“You haven’t stopped talking about her since. And now that she’s finally single, you’re standing in this forge pretending you don’t want more.”
I hesitate. Isabel’s five years younger than me, but she’s always been the one who could figure people out.
“She stopped in this morning to pick up some bookends.”
“Uh-huh.” Isabel’s grin is knowing. “And?”
“And nothing. I gave her the bookends. She tried to pay me. I refused. We had the same back-and-forth we always have about the friends and family discount.”
“The friends and family discount you only give to her.”
“That’s not—“
