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Wayne glanced at Jess, then followed her grandfather to the side of the booth.

Jess watched them from a distance. Grandpa pulled out his phone, showed Wayne something on the screen. Wayne leaned in to study it, his expression thoughtful. They talked quietly—she couldn't hear what they were saying, but she saw Wayne nod, saw her grandfather's shoulders relax slightly.

Jess spotted her grandmother heading their way, curiosity written all over her face.

Wayne's eyes found hers across the booth. He gave a subtle head shake—keep her away.

“Grandma!” Jess intercepted quickly. “I need your opinion on something.”

“What's Kenneth doing over there?”

“Just talking shop.” Jess steered her toward a display of vases. “But look at this color shift—I mixed a new copper oxide ratio.”

By the time she'd successfully distracted her grandmother, the men had finished their conversation. Grandpa rejoined them looking more relaxed than usual, catching Jess's eye with the smallest hint of a smile—a co-conspirator's smile.

Wayne appeared at her elbow moments later and showed her the photo Grandpa had sent.

A much younger Grandma looked back at her from the screen, laughing directly into the camera—beautiful, carefree, radiant. Around her neck hung an elaborate pendant: a crescent moon formed from delicate spirals of iron, tiny beads worked into the curves like stars.

“How...?” Jess breathed.

“Your grandfather's wedding gift to her,” Wayne said quietly. “Made by my grandfather sixty years ago. She wore it every day for thirty years, then the clasp failed and it was lost. He wants me to recreate it for their anniversary.”

Jess looked up at Wayne, seeing the quiet pride in his expression. “You're going to make something beautiful.”

“I'll try.” But he was already smiling, the kind of smile that said he was planning it, already seeing the finished piece in his mind.

The winter sun was setting by the time they finished loading the last box into Wayne's truck. Jess's feet ached, her voice was hoarse from talking to buyers all day, and she was pretty sure she'd smiled more in eight hours than she had in her entire three years in Brooklyn.

“That was exhausting,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat.

“That was incredible.” Wayne started the engine, then reached over to squeeze her hand. “Did you see how many business cards you collected?”

“We collected.” Jess squeezed back. “That collaborative centerpiece sold for three times what we expected. That's all you.”

“That's us.” He pulled onto the road leading out of town, toward home. The word settled in Jess's chest with quiet certainty. Home. Not her grandparents' garage apartment, not some theoretical future studio space—Wayne's house, Wayne's barn, Wayne's life that had somehow become theirs.

They drove in comfortable silence, the truck bed full of unsold inventory and packing materials, the sky turning orange and pink over the mountains. Jess let her head fall back against the headrest, watching the familiar landmarks pass by—the Caffeine Drip already closed for the evening, the fire station with its lights on for the night shift, the turn onto Creek Road that led to Wayne's property.

Their property, she mentally corrected. She'd been spending more nights at Wayne's than at her own apartment for the past month. Her kiln was in his barn. Her coffee mug lived in his kitchen cabinet. Her toothbrush sat in his bathroom holder.

She should probably make that official at some point. Stop pretending she lived on her own when really, she just stored clothes there.

Wayne turned into the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. The house sat quiet and solid in the gathering dusk, just like always. But as they drove around to the back where the barn stood—

Jess sat up straight. “Wayne. Stop.”

He hit the brakes. “What's wrong?”

“The barn.” She was already fumbling with her seatbelt. “Look at the barn.”

Two signs hung above the wide double doors, each one crafted from forged iron with letters formed in flowing script. The left sign read “Wayne Drummond Forge” in his distinctive squiggly handwriting—the same handwriting she'd seen on work orders and grocery lists. The right sign read “Jess Hartley Glass Works” in her own cursive—the flowing script she'd used to label inventory boxes.

The metalwork was exquisite. He'd captured the exact character of their handwriting, translating pen strokes into iron curves and flourishes. The signs were perfectly balanced, perfectly positioned, declaring in permanent metal that this space belonged to both of them.

Jess's vision blurred.

“When did you—” Her voice cracked. “How did you—”