Then twitched again, harder, at every fresh compliment rising from the rows she was guarding, while their owner stood with arms crossed and feet planted, working hard to look like a vigilant warrior-smith and failing at the ear level.
Kaelira knew exactly where the Villain had learned joinery.
The man had brought zero enthusiasm to the crafting arts when she met him.
Gear was gear, a means to an end, something to commission and forget, right up until the first time the two of them sweated it out together at her forge, his mana pouring into her work, her hammer setting the rhythm, the heat plastering her clothes to her body deep into the night.
Hers, because Quinlan had refused to wear a top at the forge from day one, declaring clothes a plain waste, and the picture of him working bare beside her, big muscles rolling with every motion while sweat traced lines down his chest, had burned itself somewhere permanent.
