Page 11 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

“Most people hate this work,” I said, standing close as I reached around him to adjust the thread spool.“The noise gets to them.Or the rhythm.It messes with your head, if you let it.”

“I like rhythm,” he said without looking at me.

I bit back a smile.“Good.There’s a rhythm to everything here.The machines and the shift changes.Even the lies.”

That earned me a glance.Not much of one, but it was something.A twitch of his eyebrow, maybe even a flicker of amusement.

I leaned in.“You’ll get used to it.Just don’t start thinking too loudly.”

He stared at the loom like it might answer back.“I’m not a talker.”

I smirked.“That’s fine.I talk enough for two.”

The whole time, the music in my head hadn’t stopped.It moved around Dimitri like a shadow—low brass and longing, old piano keys pressed by someone who didn’t know how to play the instrument.I hadn’t heard it in years, not like this.

And now it was here, humming around this blank-faced boy with eyes that reminded me of a melancholy poem.

The lunch bell rang—mercifully, before I said something stupid.

I wiped my hands again, unnecessarily.“You want to eat with me?”

He blinked.The corners of his mouth lifted, barely.

“Yeah,” he said, the word catching like it surprised even him.“Yeah, I’d like that.”

As we made our way down the corridor toward the break room, I tried not to look too pleased.I’m sure I failed.

And that music in my head?

It got louder.

* * *

We were finishing our lunch at a corner table in the drafty break room, sitting on creaky metal chairs with chipped paint.It wasn’t exactly candlelight and violins, but I’d take it.

Dimitri ate like someone who wasn’t sure when his next meal would come—quick, methodical, focused entirely on the food.I’d already finished mine and was now just sipping tea from a cracked mug, watching him.

I shouldn’t have been watching him.

It wasn’t smart, and it definitely wasn’t safe.But logic failed me the moment he walked onto the factory floor with that storm cloud stare and those hands—big, callused, probably strong enough to lift a man clean off his feet and throw him across a room.

I kept wondering what it’d feel like if those hands touched me the way I wanted them to.

I took another sip of tea to chase the thought out, but it didn’t go far.

“You always this quiet?”I asked casually.

He shrugged.“I guess.”

“That’s not a genuine answer.That’s a noise people make when they don’t want to tell you they’re brooding.”

He looked up, and for a heartbeat, I thought I’d made a dent.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” he said, dry as winter air.

“I have to be.Otherwise no one would take me seriously with these cheekbones,” I winked.

Still nothing.

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