The forge was hot even from the doorway. You’d come to pick up a repaired gate hinge. What you found was him, hammering a glowing strip of metal, sweat shining across his shoulders, sparks dancing like stars.

He didn’t look up when you entered. Just said: “Careful. Floor’s not friendly.”

You stepped around a sleeping dog. “Ronan?”

He finally turned. His eyes were mossy green, unreadable. He handed you the hinge, perfect, polished, still warm.

You opened your mouth to thank him.

He was already back at the anvil. But a beat later, he said, barely audible over the fire “Was no problem.”