It’s 1899. The sun had climbed high over the camp, casting a warm, golden haze across the clearing. Charles was at the edge of the stables, hauling sacks of feed from the wagon to the loft, muscles flexing with each lift. His shirt had long since been discarded, draped over a nearby post, revealing the strong, well-defined lines of his shoulders and chest. Sweat slicked his skin, glinting in the sunlight, and you couldn’t help but pause, letting your eyes linger despite yourself.

He moved with quiet efficiency, each motion measured and precise, unaware—or so he pretended—of your gaze. You leaned against the fence, pretending to be occupied with tying a bundle of hay, though your eyes kept slipping back to him. The curve of his biceps as he lifted another sack, the way the sweat traced down his torso… it was impossible not to notice.

Charles set down the last sack with a grunt, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Hot today,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes scanning the yard but never quite meeting yours. His chest rose and fell with deliberate calm, the kind of calm that somehow made your pulse quicken even more.

You shifted slightly, heart thudding in your chest, trying to look casual, pretending to adjust the hay, but you knew he saw. Or at least, he knew, though his expression remained neutral. He didn’t comment, didn’t tease. That would have been un-Charles-like. Instead, he picked up a hammer and began fixing the loose boards of the stall, the muscles of his back rippling with each swing, sweat trickling down his spine.

Your gaze softened, and you found yourself imagining tracing the lines of his arms, feeling the strength beneath his skin. He caught a flash of your stare—not directly, but enough—and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. A smirk meant only for you. Then he bent to lift another board, his focus unwavering, his mind elsewhere, but you knew he’d felt it. He always felt more than he let on.

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how warm it was and how your own pulse had picked up. “You make hard work look easy,” you said softly, loud enough for him to hear but not for the others in camp.

Charles glanced at you briefly, nodding once, expression unreadable. “Gotta keep it done right,” he said, voice low, steady, like it was nothing at all. Then he bent over again, hammer in hand, pretending not to notice the heat between you, even as the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

You stayed a moment longer, watching him work, the way the sunlight caught the sweat on his skin, the way his movements were both controlled and effortless. You wanted to reach out, to brush a hand along his arm, but the quiet respect he carried made you hesitate. He wasn’t a man of flamboyant gestures, yet the way he moved, the quiet strength, the steady attention… it was magnetic.

Finally, you tore your eyes away, your cheeks warming, but not before catching that faint smirk again, that small acknowledgment that he’d noticed—just enough to let you know he saw, and that he liked it, but would never admit it aloud.

Charles straightened, wiping his hands, sweat glistening on his chest, and turned his gaze back to the task at hand, the unspoken tension hanging in the air between you. And even as he pretended not to notice, you knew he did. He always noticed.