Clang. Then clang again—each strike of steel against steel rang out like a hymn of fire and toil, echoing through the thick summer haze that cloaked the forge. Sparks burst like miniature stars from Dammon’s anvil, flaring and scattering into the golden air. His hammer rose and fell in practiced rhythm, muscle and instinct shaping steel yet unborn—a blade waiting to be quenched, honed, and made worthy of battle.

The forge roared beside him like a slumbering dragon stirred to wakefulness, its breath hot and relentless against his skin. The hearth crackled with fury, casting flickering light over soot-streaked stone and sweat-glistened arms. Outside, the sun poured down with cruel constancy, turning the world into a heat-shimmered dream. But it wasn’t the fire that made Dammon’s tunic cling damp to his back. It wasn’t the sun that made the heat crawl up his throat.

It was you.

Tall. Striking. You. With a presence that seemed to draw in all the light around him, and a laugh that made Dammon’s ears burn scarlet, even when it wasn’t directed his way. Your sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms corded with strength and sun, muscles shifting under skin bronzed by days of labor. You held your hammer with the ease of someone born to the forge—focused, steady, maddeningly composed.

Not that Dammon noticed.

Well. He did. But not in a weird way. Just... technical appreciation. Professional interest. Craftsmanship admiration. Obviously.

Dammon exhaled through his nose—a sharp, flustered huff. His tail, betraying him, lashed once behind him, then twitched again as if it too were overwhelmed by the sight. He tried to shake the ridiculous flutter from his chest and lifted the hammer again. But his hand slipped—just a touch too fast, too careless—and the hammer clanged sideways off the blade with a teeth-clenching clang-thunk.

“Ah—blast it!” he hissed, scrambling after the hammer as it rolled off the anvil like his dignity fleeing the scene. His tail gave a mortified flick, then curled tightly around his leg in embarrassment. “Stupid grip’s all slick. Not ‘cause I was— I wasn’t *staring* at your—! I mean your *swing*. Your hammer swing.”

A beat. Then another. Silence settled awkwardly, broken only by the hiss of the forge.

“Oh gods.”

Dammon turned swiftly, burying his face in the crook of his arm, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow—but really just hiding the flush that had bloomed redder than forge-flame across his cheeks. His tail swayed side to side in chaotic little flicks, unable to settle.

“I, uh... I should get some water,” he muttered, voice a touch too high, cracking like iron in the quench. “Hydration. Crucial for... for safety. Smithing safety.”

He reached for a battered tin cup, hands trembling like a green apprentice at his first furnace. “Do you want some too? It’s... it’s hot. Obviously. And you’re... you know. Exerting yourself.” He cleared his throat. “A lot.”

Please say yes, he begged inwardly—not that he wanted to see you drink. That would be weird. Wouldn’t it? Probably. Maybe.

He passed the cup over, fingers brushing against yours for the briefest instant—and it was electric. Dammon stiffened. His tail gave a sharp twitch, then coiled itself in a mortified spiral behind him.

Nope. Not helping.

He stared intently at a patch of soot on the floor like it held ancient wisdom. That’s just the heat, he told himself. Just the heat. Not nerves. Not butterflies. And certainly not—anything else.

“You know,” he started, voice cracking like brittle coal underfoot, “you’re very...”

Dammit. He was already too deep.

“Efficient!” he declared, with the triumph of a man trying to patch a leak with his bare hands. “Solid form. Good swing. Nice—uh—good *forearms*. Not that I noticed. I *did*, but not in a weird way!”

He gave a strangled sort of chuckle—high, breathless, utterly unconvincing. “Just smith-to-smith admiration. Totally professional. Very normal.”

Another pause. Dammon waved a hand vaguely, as if to clear the air—or possibly his thoughts. His tail flopped uselessly behind him like it too had given up.

“I mean, you’re a *man*,” he said, and instantly regretted opening his mouth. “And I don’t—I haven’t—that’s never really been a thing, so this can’t be— I mean it *isn’t*—it’s not what it looks like.”

Which was a shame. Because it was exactly what it looked like.

He stood there, awkward and crimson, shoulders hunched, tail wrapped miserably around one ankle like it could anchor him against the storm of embarrassment. “Probably just the heat,” he mumbled. “Makes the brain fuzzy. Makes you say... things. Feel... stuff.”

And then he clamped his mouth shut like a trap, horrified by his own betrayal.

“Anyway!” he blurted. “I should—uh—get back to the blade. Before it loses shape. Can’t just stand around talking about—smithing technique. Efficiency. That.”

He grabbed his hammer a bit too hard, knuckles white, and turned back to his work. But as he raised it, he risked one more glance—just a quick one—toward you.

Just to make sure you were still smiling.

Definitely admiration. Definitely. Probably. ...Oh gods.