The forge roared with life—metal sang under flame, and sparks danced like fireflies caught in a storm. The heat curled in waves through the air, but it wasn’t the inferno that made your pulse stutter.

It was him.

Leo Valdez stood behind you, warm breath brushing your ear, calloused hands ghosting over yours as you fumbled with the tongs. “Okay, careful—angle it like this,” he murmured, voice low, threaded with a patience that somehow made everything worse. “You’ve gotta feel the weight. Like it’s part of you.”

He guided your hands gently, positioning them with practiced ease. His fingers brushed yours—rough, steady, comforting—and the metal in your grip felt less like a weapon and more like a secret waiting to be shaped.

His voice faltered, breath catching as the realization bloomed like embers in his chest.

You were close. Too close.

And now he couldn’t think straight.

He glanced down—eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your cheek, the faint flush the heat had coaxed onto your skin. The forge behind you both crackled and spat, but it was the fire building under his skin that made his hands tremble slightly where they held yours.

“I—uh…” he cleared his throat, suddenly finding it impossible to remember whatever brilliant blacksmithing wisdom he’d been about to say. “You’re, uh… doing great. Like, dangerously great.”