Page 10 of Heartwood and Hardware
Dean nods, and there's recognition in his eyes. "That's why I work with wood. It doesn't expect conversation."
"Exactly! Code is the same way. It either works or it doesn't. No gray areas, no hurt feelings." I stroke the fox's smooth back. "Though I do occasionally swear at my computer."
"I definitely swear at the wood," Dean says, his voice dry. "Especially when it splits wrong."
"Does it answer back?"
"Not yet. The day it does is the day I start going to therapy."
We both laugh, and I realize with surprise that I'm comfortable. The convention center chaos feels distant now, my post-panel anxiety faded to background noise.
I notice a wood shaving clinging to my cardigan sleeve and pick it off, holding it up. "I think your work is trying to tag me."
Dean leans closer, plucking something from my hair. "Looks like it." He holds up a tiny curl of cedar between two fingers. "Consider yourself marked by the woodworking gods."
"Is that good luck or bad luck?"
"Depends on who you ask." His eyes crinkle again. "My Uncle John would say it means the wood has chosen you."
"And what do you say?"
Dean seems to consider this, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. "I say it means you were meant to wander over here today."
The directness of his gaze makes my cheeks warm. I'm not used to this kind of attention—focused, unambiguous. Most people get uncomfortable with my intensity, but Dean meets it with his own.
"I think I was," I admit softly, surprising myself. "The convention center had a note about this being a decompression zone. I didn't expect to find..." I trail off, not sure how to finish.
"A guy making a racket with a chainsaw?" he supplies, his tone lightly self-deprecating.
"Someone who understands the need for space." I turn the fox in my hands, running my thumb along its tail. "And who makes beautiful things."
Now it's Dean's turn to look slightly flustered, though it's subtle—just a slight shift in posture, a brief glance away. "It's just wood."
"It's not just wood. It's..." I search for the right words, wishing I could be as eloquent about art as I am about code. "It's seeing potential where others see just a log. Finding the shape that's already there, waiting to be revealed." I look up at him. "That's a gift."
Dean studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to look away. Usually, I hate sustained eye contact—it's too intense, too hard to interpret—but with him, it feels honest rather than invasive.
"Most people just say they look cool," he finally says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Well, they do look cool," I concede, grinning back. "Especially the dragons."
"You like fantasy?"
"Love it. I'm a massive Tolkien nerd. And anything with complex world-building." I gesture to my bag, where a small Evenstar pendant hangs from the zipper. "My coding projects all have Lord of the Rings codenames."
Dean's expression brightens. "I've got a whole series of Middle Earth creatures back in my workshop. Balrog, Fellbeast, even tried my hand at Treebeard once."
"Seriously? That's amazing! Did you bring any of them?"
"Just a small Smaug. He's over there." Dean points to a table display where a dragon the size of a cat crouches over a pile of tiny carved coins.
I stand, drawn to the sculpture. "Can I see?"
"Of course."
As I move toward the dragon, I notice more wood shavings clinging to my leggings. I brush at them ineffectually, then laugh. "I think I'm collecting more of your workshop as we speak."
Dean looks down at himself, at the sawdust covering his clothes, then at the trail I'm leaving as I walk. "Between your code snippets and my wood shavings, we're leaving quite a trail."
