Page 6 of Heartwood and Hardware (Zaftig Ever After #4)

CHAPTER FIVE

RILEY

The crowd around Dean's booth gradually disperses after his demonstration ends.

I've stayed anchored to my seat, mesmerized by his hands as they transform wood into art.

There's something hypnotic about watching someone so completely in their element—the confidence in each movement, the focus in his eyes, the way his entire body seems to know exactly what to do without conscious thought.

I recognize that state. It's how I feel when I'm deep in code, when the world narrows to just me and the problem I'm solving.

"That was amazing," I tell him as he sets down his tools. "The way you brought out the bear's expression—it's like you knew exactly where to carve to make it come alive."

Dean runs a hand through his hair, leaving a dusting of fine wood particles that catch the late afternoon light. "The bear tells me where to go. I just listen."

He smiles, that same warm expression that reaches his eyes and makes something flutter in my chest. "Hungry? There are some food trucks on the other side of the artist alley."

My stomach answers before my mouth can, growling audibly. I laugh, feeling my cheeks warm. "I guess that's a yes. I completely forgot to eat before my panel."

"I know a good taco place," Dean says, wiping his hands on a rag. "If you like tacos?"

"I'm pretty sure 'doesn't like tacos' is grounds for immediate suspicion," I reply. "Lead the way."

Dean secures his booth, asking the blacksmith next door—Parker, I learn—to keep an eye on things. Parker gives me a curious once-over, then shoots Dean a look I can't quite interpret before agreeing.

As we walk away, I catch Parker's voice: "Don't forget what I told you!"

Dean's shoulders tense slightly, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he gestures toward the colorful row of tents and booths ahead. "Artist Alley is on the way. Want to check it out?"

"Definitely!" I clutch my fox carving, which hasn't left my hand since Dean gave it to me. "I always find the best stuff there."

We walk through the alley, stopping whenever something catches our eye. At a comic artist's booth, I find myself explaining the difference between Marvel and DC storytelling approaches to Dean.

"So Marvel tends to focus on flawed heroes dealing with the consequences of their powers, while DC traditionally presents more archetypal, larger-than-life figures," I explain, gesturing to the artwork displayed. "Though that's oversimplified—both have evolved a lot."

Dean listens intently, asking questions that show he's genuinely interested, not just humoring me. When I realize I've been talking for several minutes straight, I stop abruptly.

"Sorry, I'm info-dumping again."

"Don't apologize." He touches my arm briefly, the contact sending a surprising warmth through me. "I like hearing you talk about things you're passionate about."

Something about his sincerity disarms me completely. Most people get that glazed look when I go into detail about my interests. Dean actually seems to want to hear more.

"What about you?" I ask as we continue walking. "Any comics you follow?"

"Hellboy," he answers without hesitation. "Mignola's art style—all those shadows and negative space—it's influenced some of my carving techniques."

"Really? How so?"

"It's about what you leave intact as much as what you carve away." His eyes light up as he explains. "Creating depth through absence rather than addition."

We continue through Artist Alley, eventually emerging near the food truck area. The aroma of various cuisines fills the air, and my stomach reminds me again of its emptiness.

Dean guides me to a truck with a colorful mural of a taco wearing a superhero cape. "Best carnitas in the city," he promises.

After ordering, we find a relatively quiet table at the edge of the seating area. The first bite of my taco nearly makes me moan.

"Okay, you weren't kidding," I say after swallowing. "This is amazing."

Dean looks satisfied. "Food trucks are underrated. Some of the best meals I've had came from wheels."

We eat in comfortable silence for a moment. I'm struck by how easy it is to be with Dean. There's no pressure to fill every second with conversation, no anxiety about saying the wrong thing. He seems content to just exist in the same space, sharing food and occasional observations.

"So," he says finally, wiping his hands on a napkin, "how did you get into the panel circuit? Public speaking doesn't seem like it would be your first choice of activities."

The question is perceptive, and I appreciate that he doesn't dance around my obvious discomfort with crowds.

"It wasn't," I admit. "But I'm passionate about making tech more inclusive, and sometimes that means pushing outside my comfort zone." I take a sip of my drink. "Plus, I'm different when I'm talking about code. It's like... I forget to be nervous because I'm too busy being excited about the topic."

Dean nods. "I get that. When I'm carving, especially during demonstrations, I forget anyone's watching. It's just me and the wood."

"Exactly!" I lean forward, energized by his understanding. "But the mingling afterward—that's the hard part. All those unwritten social rules that everyone else seems to know instinctively."

"I've always found it easier to communicate through my work," Dean confesses, rolling his empty taco wrapper between his fingers. "Wood doesn't care if you make eye contact or say the right thing at the right time. It just responds to your hands, your intentions."

"That's how I feel about tech," I say softly. "It's honest. Logical. If something doesn't work, there's a definite reason why."

Our eyes meet across the table, and something passes between us—a recognition, a shared understanding that goes beyond words. For a moment, I feel completely seen.

"People always told me I'd 'grow out of' being socially awkward," I continue, emboldened by his acceptance. "Like it was a phase, not just how my brain works."

"As if being different is something to fix," Dean says, his voice low. "I got that too. 'You just need to open up more, Dean.' 'Why are you so serious all the time, Dean?'" He mimics the well-meaning but clueless advice. "Never understanding that this is just... me."

"Yes! And then when you try to explain, they think you're making excuses."

"Or they assume you're arrogant because you don't join in the small talk."

"Or that you're not interested because you don't make the right facial expressions at the right times."

We're both leaning forward now, the connection between us almost electric. It's like finding someone who speaks your native language after years of struggling with phrasebooks and translators.

"My ex used to say I was 'emotionally unavailable,'" Dean says, his expression darkening slightly. "Because I didn't express feelings the way she thought I should."

"That's not fair," I protest. "Different doesn't mean deficient."

"Try telling her that." He shrugs, but I can see the hurt beneath his casual demeanor. "Three years together, and she never really saw me. Just the version of me she thought I should be."

The vulnerability in his admission touches something deep in me. I reach across the table without thinking, placing my hand over his.

"Her loss," I say simply.

His eyes widen slightly, then soften. He turns his hand beneath mine, our palms meeting. His skin is warm, calloused from years of working with tools and wood. The contact sends a pleasant shiver up my arm.

"What about you?" he asks. "Anyone try to 'fix' you recently?"

I laugh, though there's little humor in it. "My last relationship ended because I was 'too intense.' Apparently, I talked about my projects too much and didn't pay enough attention to his fantasy football league."

Dean's fingers tighten slightly around mine. "Sounds like he didn't deserve your intensity."

The simple statement hits me harder than expected. I've spent so much time trying to tone myself down, to be less "too much," that hearing someone suggest my intensity might be valuable feels revolutionary.

"Thank you," I say, my voice unexpectedly thick. "For getting it. For not thinking I'm weird or broken."

"You're neither of those things." His gaze is steady, certain. "You're just Riley. And Riley is... pretty amazing, from what I've seen."

Heat rushes to my face, and I look down at our joined hands. "You're not so bad yourself, Dean Evans."

"Some people just... fit," he says, his eyes holding mine. "No awkward getting-to-know-you phase required."

The way he's looking at me makes my heart beat faster. There's an intensity to his gaze that would normally make me uncomfortable, but with Dean, it feels right. Direct. Honest.

"Want to see more of the con?" I ask, reluctantly pulling my hand from his to gather our trash.

"Lead the way."

We spend the next hour exploring the convention.

I show Dean my favorite comic book artists, explaining storylines and character arcs.

He listens attentively, asking questions that show he's genuinely engaged.

In return, he points out craftsmanship details in various displays that I would have missed—the joinery in a wooden prop sword, the balance of a hand-forged knife.

As we walk, our hands brush occasionally, each contact sending a small thrill through me.

Once, navigating through a crowded aisle, Dean places his hand lightly on the small of my back to guide me.

The gentle pressure is both protective and respectful, and I find myself leaning slightly into his touch.

Eventually, we circle back toward Maker's Row. The sun is lower now, casting long shadows across the outdoor area. Dean needs to check on his booth before the evening demonstration.

"I should probably look at my emails too," I admit as we approach his station. "Make sure I haven't missed anything important from the panel organizers."

"Use my chair," Dean offers, gesturing to his workspace. "I need to prep some new pieces anyway."

I settle into his chair, pulling out my phone while Dean sorts through blocks of wood. Parker, the blacksmith, gives me another curious look before returning to his own work.

As I suspected, my inbox is full—follow-up questions from the panel, requests for my slide deck, a few potential collaboration offers. I start responding, occasionally glancing up to watch Dean work.

He's selected a small piece of cherry wood and is carving it with focused precision. His hands move with confident economy, each cut deliberate. There's something incredibly attractive about his complete absorption in his craft.

"What are you making?" I ask during a break from emails.

"You'll see," he says with a small smile. "It's a surprise. It's almost done."

I move closer, curious. "Can I see now?"

"Almost." He makes a few more precise cuts, then reaches for a piece of fine sandpaper, smoothing the edges with gentle strokes. After blowing away the dust, he holds it up.

It's a heart. A simple, perfect heart, small enough to fit in my palm, with a smooth, polished surface that catches the light. But what makes my breath catch is the tiny detail carved into its center—a small spiral pattern that looks remarkably like code symbols.

"For you," Dean says, placing it in my hand. "To go with your fox."

I trace the spiral with my fingertip, feeling the precision of each tiny cut. "Is that... code?"

"My interpretation of it," he admits, looking slightly self-conscious. "I watched some of your panel online while setting up this morning. There was a slide with code on it, and this pattern stuck with me."

"Dean, this is..." I struggle to find adequate words. "No one's ever made something like this for me before."

"It's not much," he says, but I can see he's pleased by my reaction.

"It's perfect." I close my fingers around the heart, feeling its smooth contours against my palm. "Thank you."

The moment stretches between us, full of unspoken possibilities. Dean takes a half-step closer, his expression softening.

"Riley, I?—"

"Dean! There you are!" A voice cuts through our moment. A convention staff member approaches, clipboard in hand. "Your evening demonstration starts in fifteen minutes. We need to go over the safety procedures with the audience."

Dean's jaw tightens slightly, but he nods. "I'll be right there." As the staff member walks away, he turns back to me, regret evident in his expression. "I have to?—"

"Go," I finish for him, tucking the wooden heart into my pocket alongside the fox. "I understand."

"Will you stay? For the demonstration?" There's a vulnerability in the question that makes my heart squeeze.

"Of course," I promise. "I'll be right here."

His smile returns, warming his eyes. "Good. And after, maybe we could?—"

"Dean! Now, please!" The staff member calls again.

He sighs, squeezing my hand briefly before turning away. "Don't go anywhere," he says over his shoulder.

"I won't," I call after him.

Like the heart in my pocket, something new is taking shape between us—something neither of us planned, but that feels as natural and right as the wood yielding to the knife, revealing what was always meant to be there.