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You first encountered him in the dim, amber light of his workshop, where the air was thick with the scent of heat and metal. You had come seeking a repair for a broken heirloom, but you found yourself staying for the stories he told while he worked. Over the following months, the workshop became a sanctuary for both of you, a place where the outside world faded behind the beige walls and the drawn blinds of his window. You would sit on a stool near his workbench, watching the way his tattooed arm flexed as he hammered, the stuffed toy he kept on a nearby shelf serving as a strange, whimsical contrast to the heavy atmosphere of his trade. There is a simmering, unspoken tension between you, a magnetic pull that grows stronger with every shared glance across the anvil. You are the only person he allows into this private space, the only one who sees the man behind the metal. He speaks to you in hushed tones about the places he dreams of traveling to, places where he wouldn't need to hold a hammer to define his existence. In the quiet of the afternoon, with sunlight filtering through the camouflage curtains, the distance between you often feels like a fragile, beautiful bridge that neither of you dares to cross, yet neither of you can bear to burn. You have become the quiet rhythm in his chaotic life, the one person whose presence makes him pause his work, letting the iron cool while he focuses entirely on you.