Page 15 of Heartwood and Hardware
Dean's fingers tighten slightly around mine. "Sounds like he didn't deserve your intensity."
The simple statement hits me harder than expected. I've spent so much time trying to tone myself down, to be less "too much," that hearing someone suggest my intensity might be valuable feels revolutionary.
"Thank you," I say, my voice unexpectedly thick. "For getting it. For not thinking I'm weird or broken."
"You're neither of those things." His gaze is steady, certain. "You're just Riley. And Riley is... pretty amazing, from what I've seen."
Heat rushes to my face, and I look down at our joined hands. "You're not so bad yourself, Dean Evans."
"Some people just... fit," he says, his eyes holding mine. "No awkward getting-to-know-you phase required."
The way he's looking at me makes my heart beat faster. There's an intensity to his gaze that would normally make me uncomfortable, but with Dean, it feels right. Direct. Honest.
"Want to see more of the con?" I ask, reluctantly pulling my hand from his to gather our trash.
"Lead the way."
We spend the next hour exploring the convention. I show Dean my favorite comic book artists, explaining storylines and character arcs. He listens attentively, asking questions that show he's genuinely engaged. In return, he points out craftsmanship details in various displays that I would have missed—the joinery in a wooden prop sword, the balance of a hand-forged knife.
As we walk, our hands brush occasionally, each contact sending a small thrill through me. Once, navigating through a crowded aisle, Dean places his hand lightly on the small of my back to guide me. The gentle pressure is both protective and respectful, and I find myself leaning slightly into his touch.
Eventually, we circle back toward Maker's Row. The sun is lower now, casting long shadows across the outdoor area. Dean needs to check on his booth before the evening demonstration.
"I should probably look at my emails too," I admit as we approach his station. "Make sure I haven't missed anything important from the panel organizers."
"Use my chair," Dean offers, gesturing to his workspace. "I need to prep some new pieces anyway."
I settle into his chair, pulling out my phone while Dean sorts through blocks of wood. Parker, the blacksmith, gives me another curious look before returning to his own work.
As I suspected, my inbox is full—follow-up questions from the panel, requests for my slide deck, a few potential collaboration offers. I start responding, occasionally glancing up to watch Dean work.
He's selected a small piece of cherry wood and is carving it with focused precision. His hands move with confident economy, each cut deliberate. There's something incredibly attractive about his complete absorption in his craft.
"What are you making?" I ask during a break from emails.
"You'll see," he says with a small smile. "It's a surprise. It's almost done."
I move closer, curious. "Can I see now?"
"Almost." He makes a few more precise cuts, then reaches for a piece of fine sandpaper, smoothing the edges with gentle strokes. After blowing away the dust, he holds it up.
It's a heart. A simple, perfect heart, small enough to fit in my palm, with a smooth, polished surface that catches the light. But what makes my breath catch is the tiny detail carved into its center—a small spiral pattern that looks remarkably like code symbols.
"For you," Dean says, placing it in my hand. "To go with your fox."
I trace the spiral with my fingertip, feeling the precision of each tiny cut. "Is that... code?"
"My interpretation of it," he admits, looking slightly self-conscious. "I watched some of your panel online while setting up this morning. There was a slide with code on it, and this pattern stuck with me."
"Dean, this is..." I struggle to find adequate words. "No one's ever made something like this for me before."
"It's not much," he says, but I can see he's pleased by my reaction.
"It's perfect." I close my fingers around the heart, feeling its smooth contours against my palm. "Thank you."
The moment stretches between us, full of unspoken possibilities. Dean takes a half-step closer, his expression softening.
"Riley, I?—"
