"Sounds familiar."
"Really?"
He nodded. "Different version, same pressure. Everyone here thinks I should be dating someone, starting a family. Like I'm incomplete without a wife and kids."
"Are you? Incomplete, I mean?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it. Too personal, too direct. But he didn't seem to mind.
"I was," he said quietly. "For a while after I got out, I felt like half a person. Like I'd left the important parts of myself back in the service. But building this place, becoming part of this community…it helped me figure out who I am when nobody's telling me who to be."
He was quiet for a moment, and I could see him wrestling with something. Finally, he spoke.
"There's another reason the transition was so hard. I lost my best friend in an accident that could have been prevented. Simple safety protocol that got ignored because someone was in a hurry."
My chest tightened at the pain in his voice. "I'm sorry."
“Gomez was checking equipment that should have been locked out. Someone else was supposed to verify the power was off, but they skipped the step. Figured it was probably fine." He ran a hand through his hair. "That's why I get so uptight about safety. I've seen what happens when people get careless."
"That's not being uptight," I said softly. "That's caring about people."
He looked at me with something like gratitude. "Most people think I'm just being a control freak. They don’t know who I really am.”
Something in his voice made my chest tight. "And who are you?"
"Still figuring that out." He smiled, and it transformed his whole face. "Tonight's been educational in that regard."
"How so?"
"Well, for starters, I learned I like teaching people things. Watching you build that fire, seeing how excited you got when you got it right…that was pretty great."
Heat crept up my neck. "I got pretty excited about a marshmallow too. I'm easily impressed."
"I don't think that's true." He pushed off from the workbench and moved closer. Close enough that I caught that woodsy scent again. "I think you appreciate craftsmanship. Quality. Things that are built to last."
Was he still talking about furniture? Because the way he was looking at me suggested we'd moved into entirely different territory.
"Can I see more of your work?" I asked, needing to redirect before I did something stupid like close the distance between us completely.
"Sure." But he didn't move away. If anything, he stepped closer, reaching around me to point at a bookshelf along the far wall. "That was my first real piece. Took me three months because I kept messing up the joints."
His arm was practically around me now, his chest just inches from my back. I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could smell his cologne mixed with sawdust and something uniquely him.
"The wood grain is beautiful," I managed, though I was having trouble focusing on anything but his proximity.
"Cherry. It's local—from a tree that came down in a storm last year." His hand moved to the wood, fingers tracing the lines. "Feel this."
Before I could object, he was guiding my hand to the smooth surface, his fingers covering mine. The wood was silky under my palm, but all I could think about was the warmth of his skin, the gentle pressure of his touch.
"The grain tells a story," he said, his voice lower now, rougher. "Every ring, every variation in color—that's a year of growth, of surviving storms and droughts and whatever else came its way."
"It's beautiful," I whispered, though I wasn't looking at the bookshelf anymore. I was looking at him, at the way the workshop lights played across his features, at the intensity in his dark eyes.
"Keely."
My name sounded different in his voice. Less professional, more intimate.
"Yeah?"
