The strike of the hammer against hot steel sent sparks flaring across the concrete like fireflies on the run. Clang. Clang. My whole body moved with each blow, sweat pouring off my brow, shoulders tight with effort, the piece under the hammer glowing red-orange in the forge light.
It was barely past 7AM.
The heavy hum of the fan overhead did nothing to cool the place down, and I didn't care. The forge was my quiet, my church. The roar of flame, the hiss of quenching oil, the rough weight of steel and soot in the air—it centered me. This was where I thought best. And I had too much to think about already.
The slab I was working wasn't for class. I had a commission due next week—decorative, wrought-iron rail tops for some rich guy's front porch. Boring as hell, but the money was good and I'd already started shaping the scrollwork. Heat. Strike. Flip. Strike again. The steel surrendered slowly, groaning beneath my hand.
My phone buzzed twice against my hip, and I barely heard it through the muffled roar of the flames and the music in my ears. I didn't check it until my alarm kicked in: a low buzz and screen flash reminding me—class in an hour.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath, setting the hammer down.
I checked the temperature of the metal. Too hot to move, too cool to work. Fine timing.
With a satisfied breath, I set the piece on the angled rack to cool and killed the burners. The forge let out a long sigh as the heat began to die, the air still rich with sweat, scorched iron, and motor oil. I plucked the earbuds from my ears and coiled the cord into the case, the world around me rushing back in all at once. Birds outside. A dog barking faintly down the block. Somewhere distant, sprinklers clicking on.
Inside, I stripped in the laundry room—shirt, jeans, socks, all damp and clinging. I left them in a heap by the washing machine and padded barefoot through the kitchen to the hall. My back muscles still burned from the morning session, and a cold shower was going to suck, but it was the only thing that would get my skin clear of sweat and forge dust.
I stepped under the spray and hissed through my teeth, letting it hammer down my neck and back, chasing the heat from my limbs. The water washed dark with grime, slipping down my chest and legs in silty trails. I worked in quick motions, scrubbing with callused hands. The metal filings always stuck between my fingers.
When I got out, I rubbed down with a towel, the mirror fogged up around the edges. I ran a hand through my hair, still damp and curling just slightly at the ends, and gave up on trying to style it. There wasn't time, and frankly, I didn't care.
My phone buzzed again—traffic alert. Accident on Lincoln Ave.
"Of course," I groaned.
I threw on a clean tee and jeans, shoved my notebook and textbook into my bag, and was out the door with twenty minutes to make a fifteen-minute drive. That would've been fine. If Lincoln hadn't turned into a parking lot.
My fingers tapped the steering wheel, one knee bouncing. I was going to be late to Chemistry of all things. One of the few gen-eds I'd skipped my first year in favor of metals and advanced machining electives. Now here I was, a master's student in blacksmithing, trying to squeeze in foundational chemistry so I could finally graduate.
The clock ticked 9:02.
"Come on, come on—" I muttered, cutting into campus traffic and barreling into the student lot with more speed than the rules liked. I parked, killed the engine, and jogged across the lawn, not bothering to avoid the sprinkler puddles that had soaked the pavement.
By the time I reached the classroom, my shirt clung to my chest again—not from forge sweat, but from speedwalking in mid-August sun.
I cracked the door just wide enough to slide through.
Professor Harrison looked up, gray-browed and unamused. "Name?" he asked, not even pausing in the lecture.
"Jason Torres, sir," I said, breathless.
He nodded with no inflection, eyes flicking back down to the roster. "Have a seat, Mr. Torres."
No lecture. No glare. A small mercy.
I found the nearest open desk in the back row. A two-seater, mercifully unoccupied.
I dropped my bag, took out my notebook, and tried to look like I'd been here all along. Just as I opened my pen, the door opened again.
Another student.
I glanced up absently—then looked again.
Short waves of chestnut brown hair framed a face too angular to be soft, but too pretty to be anything else. Pale skin. High cheekbones. Lips that looked constantly halfway to a frown or a smirk, like he hadn't decided. And his eyes—holy shit—were gold. Not brown. Gold. Like citrine or candlelight.
I barely registered the conversation at the front of the class. He handed something to Professor Harrison. The older man read it, nodded, then said something I didn't hear.
And then he started walking back.
There was only one open seat.
Next to me.
I glanced down, forced my eyes away, suddenly very aware of how damp my shirt still was. My hair was still wet too. Great. Real smooth.
He slid into the chair beside me with practiced quiet. Didn't even glance at me.
I could've let it go. Let the moment pass.
But I didn't.
"Hey," I said, voice low. "I'm Jason."
He looked over, slow. Gave me a faint smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes. "V," he said.
"Just V?"
A breath of a chuckle. "Vincent, actually. But I go by V."
His voice had a faint edge I couldn't place. Not quite Russian, not quite anything I could name. Slavic, probably. There was texture there.
"V, then." I nodded, leaning back in my chair, trying not to make it obvious I was cataloging the curve of his jawline.
He didn't say anything else. Just looked back toward the front of the room and settled in like conversation was over. But it wasn't rude. Just distant. Like he didn't see a reason to fill the silence if it wasn't going to help either of us.
Still. I couldn't stop looking at him out of the corner of my eye.
He didn't fidget, but he did do this thing where his right hand drifted down to rest on his thigh. Then, very subtly, he pressed the heel of his palm into the top of it. Not hard enough to seem painful, but deliberate. Like… pressure helped him concentrate.
It wasn't the kind of thing you'd notice unless you were watching him too close.
Which, obviously, I was.
I tried to focus on the lecture. Atomic structures. Bonding. Some stuff I actually knew from practical use. But all the while, Vincent's voice kept bouncing around in my skull. Crisp. Dry. A little dismissive. And the way he'd looked at me—briefly, but clearly—before glancing away.
I wanted to know what would make him look back.
Class ended faster than I expected. As we gathered our things, I turned toward him.
"Can I get your number?" I asked.
He blinked, stunned. Mouth parted slightly. Definitely caught off guard.
"For class," I added quickly, holding up my phone like a shield. "We'll be stuck in this lab all semester, and the syllabus says—"
"Yes," he interrupted, voice low.
I shut up, handed him my phone.
He tapped in his number without hesitation and passed it back. I sent a quick test text. The ding from his pocket confirmed it, and for the first time all class, he smiled. Really smiled. Just a small tilt of the mouth, but it reached his eyes.
I stood quickly, backpack swinging over my shoulder. "See you tomorrow?"
He nodded without words.
I turned to leave, nearly collided with some guy's elbow, muttered an apology, and hurried out. When I looked back, Vincent was smirking faintly like he'd just watched something amusing happen on TV.
My face burned.
Once I got to the car, I flopped into the driver's seat and immediately texted him:
Me: I'm usually way smoother than that.
Three minutes passed. I drummed on the steering wheel, checked the time, looked at my phone again.
Then the reply came:
V: Something tells me that isn't true.
I grinned. Actually grinned. Alone in my car like a lovesick idiot.
And for once, I didn't care.
-
By the time I made it home, my ears were ringing from how long I'd been smiling. That was dumb. I was being dumb. It was just a text. A snarky one, yeah, but not flirtation. V didn't strike me as the type to flirt. I wasn't even sure he'd meant to tease me.
Still, I read it again before I got out of the car.
Something tells me that isn't true.
No emoji. Just that quiet punch of tone. I could hear it in his voice. Flat. Precise. Maybe amused. Maybe not. My brain refused to settle on one or the other.
The forge out back was still radiating warmth from this morning. I flipped on the main fan and cracked the bay door before unlocking the side panel and stepping in. Smell of carbon. Metal. Sweat still clung to the walls, though I'd showered before class. I ran my fingers over the piece from earlier—half a rail head for a commission project, curved and decorative—and then over the tong rack where all my favorite tools hung like familiar teeth. All of it grounding. All of it routine.
None of it distracted me from the mental loop: Vincent. V. Gold eyes. V.
I set up for another round of work, not because I needed to, but because I didn't know what else to do with the tension sitting just behind my collarbone. I got the forge roaring again. Orange first, then yellow, then white-hot. The steel bar went in, and I waited.
And I thought about his voice again.
It had this smallness to it. Not shy. Careful. Like he was already trying not to take up too much space in the room. And when he said his full name, Vincent, it had weight. He hadn't looked at me when he said it. He'd looked at the table. Like he wanted to give me the truth, but didn't trust what I'd do with it.
My hands curled around the hammer as I pulled the bar out. The sizzle. The flex of my arms. The sweet thunk of iron to anvil, strike after strike.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
And the image of his mouth stayed with me. The shape of it when he said yes. The way it had quirked at the corners when he glanced at his phone. That look—the faintest smirk that didn't quite reach full confidence. The one that hinted there might be something underneath, if you could just dig deep enough to reach it.
I lost track of time in the rhythm, only noticing when my shirt started clinging too tight from sweat and the forge timer went off. I quenched the piece, oiled it, logged the steps in my phone, and left it to rest. Then I stood there in the quiet for too long.
Eventually I cleaned up, went back inside, peeled off my shirt, and leaned in front of the bathroom mirror. Shoulders glistening. Arms loose and tired. My hair was a disaster, curling where I'd run my hands through it too much. I wiped condensation from the glass, grinned at myself—and immediately wiped the smile off.
"Nope," I said to the mirror. "Don't make it weird."
Too late.
I was already thinking about what kind of scent Vincent wore. Whether he smelled like laundry detergent and paperbacks, or maybe nothing at all. I was already wondering what his room looked like. If he lived with roommates. If he had someone. Probably did. Guys like him—quiet, smart, soft in the corners—they didn't stay single long. Or maybe he chose single. Maybe it was easier that way. Less confusing.
I ran a hand through my hair again and flopped onto the bed, still shirtless, still tired, but not sleepy.
Just… wired.
I unlocked my phone again, opened our thread.
One message from me. One from him.
I hovered over the keyboard. Closed it. Reopened it.
Then typed:
Me: You've got me there.
Dot dot dot. Nothing.
Dot dot dot. Still nothing.
Then:
V: I do not have you anywhere.
I laughed. Out loud laughed. Laughed hard enough I had to sit up and put the phone down.
This guy was going to ruin me.