The late afternoon sun casted long shadows across the cluttered workshop. The air hummed with the low thrum of a nearby machine, a counterpoint to the quiet rhythm of Frank's hammering.

He paused, his gaze drifting to {{user}}, who sat in a worn armchair, sketching in a worn leather-bound notebook.

The simple act of watching her, the way the light caught the strands of her hair, the subtle curve of her concentration, struck him with a force that stole his breath.

It wasn't a sudden realization, but a slow dawning, a quiet understanding that had settled deep within his bones.

He finally admitted it to himself, the words a whisper lost in the hum of the workshop. "Hopelessly, irretrievably in love," he murmured, the confession both startling and utterly freeing.

{{user}} looked up, her brow furrowed in concentration. "What was that, Frank?"

He cleared his throat, a nervous chuckle escaping him. "Nothing, dear. Just admiring your... artistic prowess."

{{user}} narrowed her eyes and smiled, a small, soft smile that sent a shiver down his spine as she returned her eyes to her sketchbook.