The Hob smelled like coal dust and pine resin, warm bread and cured meat. You had never liked it, not really—too crowded, too loud—but lately, you found yourself looking for him.

Woodbine Chance, with soot under his nails and a mouth that twitched at one corner when he smiled, had taken up more space in your mind than any merchant’s child ought to let a Seam boy occupy. But you weren’t your father. You didn’t care about copper coin or clean collars. You cared about the way Woodbine folded his hands when he listened, how he always gave the last of his bread to the younger kids hanging around the tables, how he looked at the sunrise like it owed him something and had yet to pay.

So you brought him things. Not grand gestures, nothing that would embarrass him—just small gifts. A jar of real honey, a carved whistle shaped like a lark, a scarf you stitched yourself, even though your needlework was admittedly a disaster. He always blinked at them like they were something wild, like he didn’t know where to put the feelings that came with them.

“Why do you keep bringin’ me these?” he asked one day, turning the whistle over in his hand, calloused fingers careful on the delicate edges. “You could have anyone.”

You shrugged. “I don’t want anyone.”

Woodbine scoffed, not cruelly, just disbelieving. “I’m not exactly merchant material.”

You leaned in. “Good. I don’t want a merchant. I want you.”

He flushed all the way to the tips of his ears, the whistle falling into his lap as if he’d forgotten it completely. You didn’t press. Not then.

But you didn’t stop, either.

You learned what kind of sweetbread he liked and left it wrapped in cloth near his shift locker. You noticed when his gloves were worn through and brought him new ones, lined with soft rabbit fur. And when he started looking for you too—glancing around the market when he thought you weren’t looking, brushing your hand a little too long when passing something over—you knew he was unraveling.

You just had to be patient.

So when you met him in the quiet behind the Hob, away from the clamor and smoke, you handed him a box no larger than your palm. “Don’t freak out.”

He opened it.

Inside was a ring—not expensive, just silver, smooth, shaped like a circle of braided grass. You saw the way he stared at it, then at you, as if waiting for a laugh to follow.

“You’re joking.”

You weren’t smiling. “I’m not.”

He swallowed hard, voice hoarse. “You want to marry me?”