Chapter 2
The metal glows fiery orange against the anvil as I bring the hammer down in steady, rhythmic strikes. Tink. Tink. Tink.
Shape it.
Mold it.
Make it stronger than it started.
That’s the goal.
That’s what my father used to say. Same words, same anvil.
He stood in this exact spot for thirty-five years, shaping metal with hands that never rushed, never forced.
He’d say the iron tells you what it wants to be — you just have to be patient enough to listen.
Three years gone, and I still catch myself listening for his footsteps behind me, waiting for him to correct my grip or tell me I’m hitting too hard.
The sun climbed high about an hour ago. It shines brightly outside, but it being directly overhead means it doesn’t touch much beyond the forge’s open doors. I’ve been at this since before dawn.
I roll my aching shoulders, stretching the tightness that comes from honest, back-breaking work. Sweat drips down my skin despite the November chill drifting through the door.
I need to finish this piece before five, but I can’t focus worth a damn.
I keep replaying this morning in my head. The way Sadie’s entire body reacted when our fingers touched—that sharp intake of breath, the shiver she couldn’t hide. She wouldn’t hold my gaze for more than a few seconds. Bolted when I offered coffee, stammering about Macy being alone.
Something’s bothering her.
But she felt it. I know she did. The same electricity that’s been building between us for five years. And then she ran in her very Sadie-like way she does when things get too real.
I bring the hammer down harder than necessary. The clang echoes through the forge.
She was out the door before I could push. I offered her a simple cup of coffee, and she looked at me like I’d asked for something dangerous and forbidden, backing toward the exit, putting distance between us, clutching those bookends to her chest like armor.
Five years. Five years of lingering touches, of making sure she knows I notice her, of giving her every signal short of skywriting it above the forge. Five years of her leaning in and pulling back. Reaching for my hand and then shoving hers in her pockets.
She did it again this morning. That moment when her breath caught and her eyes went soft—and then the wall came up. The same wall she used to hide behind when Owen was making her miserable. That forced brightness. The deflection. The quick exit before anyone could ask if she was okay.
She still won’t let herself see what’s right in front of her. Or maybe she does see it. Maybe that’s exactly why she ran.
I asked today. She said she was fine. She wasn’t fine.
Back then, I had an excuse for not pushing—she wasn’t mine to protect, she was Owen’s girlfriend, and friends don’t overstep. Now? She’s been free for three months, and I’m still standing here letting her run.
I slam the hammer down again.
“You’re going to pound that into dust if you keep going.”
I look up. Isabel, my sister, leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
“What are you doing here?” I set down the hammer.
“Checking on my big brother.” She pushes off the frame and comes inside. “And apparently I was right to be concerned, because you’re murdering that poor piece of metal.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re obsessing.” She picks up one of the finished fireplace tools and examines it with the critical eye she inherited from our mother. “These are beautiful, Mateo. But there’s like six sets here. Are you building inventory or avoiding something?”
She’s not wrong about the inventory. Six fireplace tool sets I don’t have orders for. That’s hours of coal and iron I can’t bill anyone for, and the Hendersons’ custom railing is due in a matter of days.
But the rhythm helps. The heat helps. And it’s easier to shape metal than figure out what to do about the woman whose breath catches every time I get too close.
“Can’t it be both?”
“Not usually.” She smiles and steps closer, her expression softening. “How’s Sadie?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The woman who has you out here before dawn, stress-forging fireplace tools like your life depends on it.” She sets the tool down. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” I grab a rag and start wiping down my tools, avoiding her eyes.
“Bullshit.” She waits until I look at her. “You remember the day she moved here?”
I do. She walked into the forge on a Sunday afternoon, sunburned and out of breath, asking if I knew where to find the bookshop. Her hair was falling out of her ponytail, and she had a box of books in her arms. She smiled at me like I was the first person in this town who didn’t make her nervous.
I forgot how to speak for a solid ten seconds.
“What about it?”
“You haven’t stopped talking about her since. And now that she’s finally single, you’re standing in this forge pretending you don’t want more.”
I hesitate. Isabel’s five years younger than me, but she’s always been the one who could figure people out.
“She stopped in this morning to pick up some bookends.”
“Uh-huh.” Isabel’s grin is knowing. “And?”
“And nothing. I gave her the bookends. She tried to pay me. I refused. We had the same back-and-forth we always have about the friends and family discount.”
“The friends and family discount you only give to her.”
“That’s not—“
“Mateo.” Isabel moves closer, her voice firm. “How long are you going to keep hinting instead of just telling her?”
“She just got out of a relationship.”
“Three months ago.” Isabel crosses her arms. “With Owen Ross, who was a complete asshole to her, by the way. You watched him make her smaller and quieter and less herself for two years.”
“He was my friend.”
“No, he wasn’t. At least not in the way a friend should be.
Real friends don’t treat people the way he treated Sadie.
Besides, friendship doesn’t mean watching someone you care about get mistreated without saying anything.
” She sighs. “I’m not trying to give you shit, hermano.
I just... When are you going to tell her how you feel?
Because from where I’m standing, you should’ve done it five years ago. ”
I turn back to my tools, organizing them with more focus than necessary. “I haven’t exactly been subtle, Isabel. I’m not hiding it.”
Isabel’s eyebrow arches. “Mateo, she isn’t getting the signals. This woman needs words. Clear, direct, can-not-be-misinterpreted words. Besides, how will you know she’s ready if you don’t ask?”
The words hit harder than they should. I don’t respond.
Well, fuck.
When did my baby sister get so perceptive?
I grab the tongs and shove the metal back into the forge, watching it heat.
Isabel is quiet for another moment. “You know what Mamá would say?”
I do. I can hear our mother’s voice as clearly as if she were standing here: Sometimes the bravest thing is being honest about what you want.
“Sí, Isabel, but Papá would tell me that patience is a virtue.”
“He did say that,” she admits. “But do you remember the last thing he told us? Right before he died?”
I close my eyes. Our father’s been gone three years, but I still feel his absence every day in this forge. He taught me everything I know about metalworking, about craft, about integrity.
“He told us that the two years he waited to propose to Mamá were the hardest of his life. That he should have asked her sooner. That love required action, not just feeling.” I turn to face her. “And that made sense for them. Mamá adored Papá. Papá was patient for no reason.”
“So what’s stopping you?” Isabel presses.
“It’s not the same—“
“Mateo.” Isabel steps in front of me, forcing me to meet her eyes.
“She comes here every week when she could just text you about the bookends. She lights up when she sees you — I’ve watched it happen.
She leans into you every time you’re close.
She looks at you like you’re the safest place in her world.
” She pauses. “You already know all this. So what are you actually afraid of?”
“That’s just—“
“Don’t.” Isabel cuts me off. “Don’t pretend this is just friendly.
You were there after she left Owen. You were there before she made that choice.
Every fight, every insult thrown her way by that man, she confided and trusted in you.
You fix things for her. Make things. Show up.
You wait. But you still won’t do the thing that matters most.”
“Which is?”
“Using your words, hermano. You flirt. You touch. You look at her like she’s the only woman in the room. And she has no idea because you’ve never actually said it.”
I let out a harsh breath. “I offered her coffee this morning. Just coffee. And she looked at me like I’d propositioned her, then practically ran out of here.”
“And did you tell her why you wanted her to stay? Or did you just offer coffee and hope she’d figure out the rest?”
I don’t answer because she’s right.
My phone buzzes on the workbench. I glance at it.
Sadie: Thank you again for the bookends. They’re perfect.
Even her thank-you texts are careful. Polite. Keeping things exactly where they are.
“She’s not ready,” I say. “She just got out of a relationship with a man who spent two years telling her what to feel. If I push this now, I’m just another man making decisions for her.”
“There’s a difference between pushing and being honest.”
“Is there? From where she’s standing?”
Isabel is quiet for a moment. “You’re not Owen, Mateo. Telling someone you love them isn’t the same as controlling them.”
“I know that.”
“Then trust her to know it too.” She squeezes my shoulder. “She’s stronger than you think. And she deserves to know the truth.”
She’s right. I know she’s right.
But wanting to protect someone and wanting to be honest with them don’t always point in the same direction. And I’d rather wait forever than risk becoming another person who made Sadie Pierce feel like she didn’t get to choose.
Isabel shakes her head. “You can’t protect her from being loved, Mateo. That’s not how it works.”
Damn it.
Isabel heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and Mateo? Mamá‘s expecting you for dinner on Sunday.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. And bring Sadie with you. Mamá‘s been asking about her.”
“Isabel—“
“Just think about it.” She grins. “No pressure.”
The door closes behind her, and I’m alone again with the forge and my thoughts.
I pull out my phone and stare at Sadie’s contact.
No new messages. We don’t text much—our friendship exists in those moments at the forge and the brief conversations when she stops by.
It’s an easy silence we’ve built over years of careful distance.
Isabel’s words echo in my head. Use your words. Clear, direct, can-not-be-misinterpreted words.
Five years of waiting. Five years of hoping she’d see it without me having to risk saying it out loud. And where has that gotten me? Watching her panic this morning, unable to ask what’s really wrong because I’ve kept us in this careful friend zone for so long.
I check the time. Book club starts at seven. It’s just after noon now. Seven hours until I see her again.
I pick up the hammer. The metal’s cooled too much. I shove it back into the coals and wait for it to heat.
I’m good at waiting. I’ve had five years of practice.
But Isabel’s right about one thing—Sadie deserves the truth. And sooner or later, I’m going to have to find the words.