Page 10 of King of the Weld (The Morrison Brothers #1)

Ethan turns away from the window, his vigilance both reassuring and unsettling. Though his call with his brother has given us hope, the knot of anxiety in my stomach refuses to dissolve. I've spent twenty-three years learning that my father doesn't surrender, not to anything or anyone.

"Are you okay?" Ethan asks, noticing my expression.

I try to smile but can't quite manage it.

"Just...restless. Worried." I hesitate, then ask, "Would it be alright if I watched you work? In your workshop, I mean."

The question clearly catches him off guard. His brow furrows slightly. "Watch me work? Why?"

It's a fair question. One I'm not entirely sure how to answer without sounding ridiculous.

"It might calm us both down," I say finally. "You seem most at ease when you're working with metal, and I—" I pause, struggling to articulate the feeling. "I found it peaceful, watching you that first night through the window. Before I passed out."

Ethan looks at me as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning behind my request. Finally, he nods. "I do have a project I could work on. Nothing urgent, but it would keep my hands busy."

Relief washes over me. The thought of sitting in the cabin waiting for my father's next move makes my skin crawl. "Thank you."

Ethan collects his keys and a light jacket for me, since the workshop doesn't retain heat the way the cabin does. As we step outside, his eyes scan the tree line again, clearly a soldier's habit, but reassuring.

The workshop sits about thirty feet from the main cabin.

It’s a sturdy structure with large windows and a higher roof than the cabin itself.

Inside, the space is organized with meticulous care.

Tools hang on pegboards in precise arrangements.

Work surfaces are clean and orderly. The forge dominates one corner, currently cold and quiet.

"You'll need to stay back when I'm welding," Ethan tells me, gesturing to a stool positioned a safe distance from the main work area. "The light can damage your eyes if you look directly at it."

"I'll be careful," I promise, settling onto the stool.

Ethan moves around the workshop, gathering materials and equipment. He pulls on heavy gloves and a welding mask, then pauses.

"I have a spare mask if you want to see more clearly," he offers. "But you still need to keep your distance."

"I'd like that," I say, surprised and touched by the offer.

He retrieves a second mask from a cabinet and hands it to me. It's heavier than I expected, designed to protect the entire face.

"What are you making?" I ask as he sets up his materials.

"Railing sections for the rodeo," he replies. "Thought I'd get a head start, test a design concept."

He positions a piece of metal on the workbench, then reaches for his welding torch.

"Mask down when I start," he instructs, and I obediently lower the protective shield over my face.

The workshop fills with the bright, crackling light of the weld, blue-white and intense even through the protective mask.

Ethan's posture changes as he works: total concentration, his large hands surprisingly delicate as they guide the torch along the seam of metal.

There's something almost meditative about watching him, the steady movement, the shower of sparks falling like stars.

When he pauses to adjust his position, I ask, "How did you learn to do this?"

"Army," he answers, not looking up from his work. "Had an aptitude for it in training. After that, I sought out opportunities to learn more, specialized courses, mentors when I could find them."

"You enjoy it."

He glances up briefly. "Metal doesn't lie or pretend. It responds exactly how physics dictates it will. Heat it enough, it changes state. Apply the right techniques, it becomes stronger at the joining point than it was before."

"Were your parents supportive? Of your interest in this?"

Ethan's hands pause momentarily before resuming their work. "My father taught me the basics when I was a kid. He was a mechanic. Good with engines, cars, anything mechanical. Didn't live to see me develop it further."

"I'm sorry," I say softly.

"Long time ago," he replies. "Our mother raised us after. Four boys, on her own. Worked two jobs sometimes."

The picture forms in my mind: four Morrison boys, growing up without a father, with a mother stretching herself thin to provide. So different from my own childhood of privilege and constraints.

"She must be very proud of all of you," I observe. "A cowboy, a global businessman, a professional athlete, and you, an ex-military"

Ethan sets down his torch, lifting his mask to check his work. "She was. Passed five years ago."

The past tense hits me harder than expected. "I'm sorry, Ethan. I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," he says, though his tone suggests otherwise. "She got to see all of us settled in our paths, more or less. That mattered to her."

He adjusts the metal, preparing for another weld. "What about your mother? What's she like?"

The question catches me off guard. No one has ever really asked about my mother as a person, separate from her role as Edward Valentine's wife.

"Beautiful," I say, the first word that comes to mind. "Perfectly composed at all times. She was a model before she married my father, did you know that?"

Ethan shakes his head, lowering his mask again.

"Italian fashion houses, mostly. That's how they met. At some fashion event in Milan. My father was there on business." I pause, sifting through memories. "She gave up her career when they married. I don't think she's ever regretted it, or if she has, she'd never show it."

"Sounds lonely," Ethan comments, the welding torch flaring to life again.

"I think it is," I admit. "But she has her charitable work, her social circles. She's built a life that looks perfect from the outside."

"And from the inside?"

I consider the question seriously. "I don't know if anyone sees the inside, really. Not even my father. Maybe especially not my father."

Ethan works in silence for a few minutes, the sound of the welding torch filling the workshop. I watch, mesmerized by the process—metal yielding to heat, joining together under his experienced guidance.

"What was it like?" I ask when he pauses again. "Being in the military?" He stiffens slightly, and I immediately regret the question. "I'm sorry—you don't have to answer that."

"No, it's..." He sets down the torch, pushing his mask up to look at me directly. "It's a complicated question. Parts of it were good. The structure, the purpose, the brotherhood. Other parts..." He trails off, his eyes focusing on something I can't see. "Other parts were harder."

"The combat," I suggest gently.

He nods once. "Combat changes you. Not always in ways you understand at the time."

I wait, sensing there's more he wants to say, giving him space to find the words.

"There's a clarity in combat," he continues finally. "Everything reduced to its most essential form. Survive, protect, complete the mission. The world becomes very simple." He clenches his fists. "Coming back to civilian life, everything feels complicated again. Messy. Uncertain."

"Is that why you live out here? To keep things simple?"

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Part of it. Part of it is not trusting myself around too many people. Loud noises, unexpected movements… They can trigger responses I can't always control."

The admission feels significant, a piece of himself he doesn't share easily.

"That's why you don't sleep much," I guess. "The nightmares."

His eyes meet mine, "Yes."

I nod, not pushing further. "Thank you for telling me. Could you also tell me more about your brothers," I say eventually. "You mentioned three of you?"

This draws a genuine, if small, smile from him. "Four Morrison boys total, terror of the neighborhood growing up." He adjusts his position, preparing another piece of metal. "I’m the oldest. David's the pro quarterback. A few months into recovery from an injury."

"That must be difficult for him," I observe.

"It's hit him hard. Been drinking too much, from what Jack tells me. Man spent twenty years defining himself by what he could do on a field. Now he's trying to figure out who he is without that."

"Have you spoken with him about it?"

"Not directly. We check in, but..." He shrugs. "I'm not great at those conversations. Michael's better at it."

"And Michael is the businessman?"

"Second oldest. Always had a head for numbers, for seeing opportunities others missed. Started his first company in college, some tech thing I never understood. Sold it for millions before he was twenty-five, then built something bigger."

"The one who's helping us now," I clarify.

Ethan nods. "Michael operates in your father's world. Understands the rules, the leverage points."

"And your youngest brother? Jack, right?"

"The cowboy," Ethan confirms. "Professional rodeo rider, though he's had his share of injuries. Fearless, charming, too charming for his own good sometimes. Women adore him."

There's clear affection in Ethan's voice as he speaks about his brothers, despite the distance he keeps from them.

"You miss them," I observe.

He doesn't answer immediately, focusing on a particularly delicate weld. When he finally responds, his voice is quieter. "Yes. But it's better this way."

"Better for whom?"

Ethan sets down his torch, pushing up his mask to look at me directly. "For them. For anyone who gets too close." His jaw tightens. "I told you. I'm not always in control of how I react to things. Better to keep my distance than risk hurting someone I care about."

The sadness in this statement strikes me deeply. Ethan Morrison has exiled himself, convinced his broken pieces are too dangerous to share.

"What if that's not your decision to make?" I challenge gently. "What if the people who love you would rather take that risk than lose you?"

"It is my decision. My responsibility."

I recognize the stubborn set of his jaw, the defensive wall rising again. Pushing further now would only make him retreat more completely. Instead, I change the subject.

"The piece you're making… It's beautiful. Even unfinished."

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly at the redirect. "Functional first, beautiful second. That's the rule of good craftsmanship."

"Like a metaphor for life," I muse.

Ethan gives me a curious look. "How so?"

"Build something solid first, something that works, that serves its purpose. The beauty comes from that foundation, not the other way around." I smile slightly. "At least, that's how it should be. My world tends to prioritize appearances over substance."

"And yet here you are," Ethan points out. "Choosing substance."

The observation warms something in me. "I'm trying to."

Ethan returns to his work, and I continue watching, fascinated by the transformation taking place under his hands.

Raw metal becoming something functional, strong, even beautiful in its utility.

So different from the ornamental, decorative world I come from, where beauty often masks structural weakness.

"Were you ever married?" I ask suddenly, the question emerging before I can consider its propriety.

Ethan's hands still for a moment. "No."

"Engaged?"

He sets down his tools and turns to face me fully. "Why the interest in my romantic history?"

Heat rises to my cheeks. "Just curious. You don't have to answer."

He sighs. "There was someone before my last deployment. Serious enough that we'd talked about a future. When I came back..." He gestures vaguely to himself. "I wasn't the same person. Neither was she. We wanted different things."

"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it.

Ethan shrugs, turning back to his work. "It was the right decision. For both of us."

But I wonder if it was, or if it was just easier. Another way for Ethan to exile himself, to reinforce the walls he's built around his life.

"What about you?" he asks unexpectedly. "Besides Harrison. Was there ever anyone you chose for yourself?"

The question brings a sad smile to my lips. "Not really. Dating isn't simple when you're a Valentine. Every potential partner is evaluated for what they bring to the family—connections, bloodlines, business opportunities. Romance was never part of the equation."

"That sounds like a lonely way to grow up," Ethan observes.

"It was," I admit. "But I had books. Hundreds of them. Stories where people found love based on character, on connection, not bank accounts or social standing."

"Is that what you want? The kind of love you read about in books?"

"Not the idealized, perfect version. But yes, I want to choose someone for my own reasons. To be chosen for myself, not my name or what I represent." I pause, then add quietly, "I want to matter as a person, not a possession."

Ethan's eyes meet mine. "You do matter, Sophia. As a person."