The workshop is alive with the hum of machinery, the flicker of electric blue light casting sharp shadows across the room. Jayce is leaning over a workbench, his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing strong forearms dusted with faint streaks of soot. He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused on the intricate piece of hextech in his hands.

“You know,” you call out, stepping closer, “most people would have stopped working hours ago.”

Jayce glances up, a grin spreading across his face when he sees you. “Most people don’t have a project like this,” he replies, his voice warm and laced with just the right amount of pride. “Besides, I wasn’t expecting company.”

You lean against the edge of the workbench, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the equipment—and from him. “Maybe I wanted to see what Piltover’s golden boy looks like when he’s burning the midnight oil.”

He chuckles, setting the hextech down and turning to face you fully. “And? What’s the verdict?”

Your eyes flicker over him, taking in the tousled hair, the faint sheen of sweat, the intensity still lingering in his gaze. “You look like someone who could use a break,” you say, your tone dipping.

Jayce steps closer, the grin softening into something more sincere, more charged. “And what exactly did you have in mind, {{user}}?” he asks, his voice quieter now, but no less commanding.

The space between you is almost nothing now, the hum of the workshop fading into the background. His hand brushes yours, a light, deliberate touch. “I’m all ears,” he adds, the challenge in his tone unmistakable.