Page 10 of King of the Weld
Chapter 4 - Ethan
The rain continues through the night, a steady drumming that usually soothes my restless mind. Not tonight. Tonight, my thoughts are as turbulent as the weather, circling around the woman who now sleeps on my couch for the second night in a row.
Sophia Valentine. Just the name carries weight, history, expectations. I've done my best to stay clear of such things since returning stateside. My life is purposely simple—the forge, the cabin, the woods. No complications. No responsibilities beyond my own survival.
Yet here I am, involving myself in her problems. Planning to take her into town. Positioning myself between her and whatever forces are hunting her. It goes against every boundary I've set for myself these past years.
I sit in the chair across from her sleeping form, a sentinel position I've held through most of the night. She sleeps deeply, exhaustion still claiming her despite the rest she got today. In sleep, her face softens, the wariness and determination that mark her waking hours temporarily erased. She looks younger, vulnerable in a way that stirs protective instincts I thought I'd buried with my uniform.
Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous feelings.
Around three in the morning, I give up on the pretense of rest and move quietly to my workshop. The forge is cold, but the familiar routine of stoking it to life centers me. Soon the heat builds, orange flames licking at the metal I've positioned in the heart of the fire.
I lose myself in the rhythm of the work—heat, hammer, shape, repeat. The piece taking form beneath my hands is small butcomplex, a delicate leaf with detailed veining. Not my usual style, but my hands seem to have ideas of their own tonight.
The sky begins to lighten before I realize how much time has passed. I set aside the finished piece—still too hot to touch—and extinguish the forge. My shoulders ache pleasantly from the labor, my mind quieter now than it's been since finding Sophia at the edge of my property.
When I return to the cabin, she's still asleep. I shower quickly, letting hot water sluice away the soot and sweat of my night's work. By the time I emerge, dressed in clean jeans and a dark henley, the first rays of sun are breaking through the clouds.
I make coffee, its rich aroma filling the small kitchen. As if summoned by the smell, Sophia stirs, her eyes fluttering open to find me leaning against the counter, mug in hand.
"Morning," I say, keeping my voice low.
She pushes herself up, running a hand through her tangled hair. "What time is it?"
"Just after six. Coffee?"
She nods, accepting the mug I offer with both hands. "Did you sleep at all?" she asks, eyeing the shadows under my eyes.
"Enough," I lie. "We should head out by seven if we want to beat the morning rush in town."
She sips her coffee, studying me over the rim. "You were in your workshop. I heard the hammering."
I shrug. Most people don't notice my comings and goings, don't pay attention to the rhythms of my existence. "Couldn't sleep. Might as well be productive."
"What were you making?"
"Nothing important," I deflect, though the leaf cooling on my workbench feels like something more significant than I want to admit. "You should eat something before we go."
I busy myself making a simple breakfast: eggs, toast, the last of the bacon. Sophia watches me move around the kitchen, her gaze so intent I can almost feel it.
"You don't like talking about your work," she observes.
"Not much to say about it." I set a plate in front of her. "It's just work."
"I don't think that's true," she says, surprising me. "I saw your face when you were at the forge that first night. That's not just work for you. It's something more."
I sit across from her, uncomfortable with her insight. "Eat your breakfast, Sophia. We've got a lot to do today."
She takes a bite of eggs, still watching me with those perceptive eyes. "You always use my name," she notes.
"It's your name, isn't it?"
"Yes, but most people just call me Soph or they gesture for me to come without saying my name. My family always does."
"I'm not your family," I remind her, perhaps more harshly than intended.
"No," she agrees quietly. "You're not."
