Jaenor stepped out of Natina’s house; the cool air of the mountains stuck his face, making him hiss. The cold would double down right after the sun in these mountains, and as it was evening and the sun was no longer on the horizon, the weather would only get colder.
Jaenor walked to the street in front of Natina’s house, his blood still running hot from their encounter.
The memory of her curves and the pleasure of her touch distracted him from the chilly wind. He wanted to spend the rest of the night with her and savour the moment, but he needed to go to his mother. It had been a day since he touched her, and he was longing for it.
No matter how many women came, he would never forget his mother.
As he was making his way towards his home, a sound of familiar laughter echoed through the evening air and drew his attention.
He saw Baren and Taeryn were making their unsteady way up the path, arms slung around each other’s shoulders in the manner of men who had discovered the bottom of more than one tankard. Their voices carried on the still air, raised in a drinking song that was only marginally in tune and considerably less than appropriate for mixed pany.
The sight of them brought a grin to Jaenor’s face.
Seeing his two friends staggering their way around the street, made him remember his old days.
Baren caught sight of Jaenor, and his face split in a wide smile that revealed teeth. He was the oldest of them all and worked as a blacksmith, inheriting his smithy from his father.
His dark hair was prematurely streaked with silver—a consequence, he claimed, of dealing with difficult customers and stubborn iron in equal measure.
"Jaenor!" he called out, his voice carrying the careful precision of a man trying not to slur his words.
"Jaenor, you sneaky woolhead!" Taeryn’s voice slurred, heavy with ale.
Beside him, Baren swayed, his broad frame unsteady, a grin splitting his face.
The three had been friends since childhood, their bond forged in scraped knees and shared secrets, but now Jaenor’s secret burned in his chest.
"Taeryn, Baren," Jaenor said, forcing a smile. "You two look like you’ve drowned in the wine barrels."
Baren chuckled, his eyes glassy. "And you look like you’ve been wrestling trolls!"
Jaenor chuckled. "Helping Natina with her fence," he lied, though he hated he did. "It was leaning something fierce."
Taeryn barked a laugh, nearly tripping. "Fixing fences, eh? At dusk? You’re a worse liar than me, Jae."
He nudged Baren, winking. "Bet he was chasing some lass, not hammering posts."
Baren snorted, clapping Jaenor’s shoulder. "Leave him be, Tae. e on, I’m dropping you at your place before you fall in a ditch."
The three shared a moment of easy laughter, the tension easing, though Jaenor’s gut twisted. They parted at Taeryn’s gate, Baren half-carrying Taeryn inside, their drunken banter fading. Baren emerged soon after, waving sleepily before trudging toward his own home, his forge waiting.
Jaenor made his way to his home, the familiar sight of its thatched roof grounding him.
As he entered, the smell of his mother’s cooking filled the air like a weling embrace.
Garrick sat at the kitchen table, looking considerably more sober than his friends had been, though his cheeks held the ruddy glow that spoke of good ale shared among friends. He looked up as he settled into the chair across from his father, his weathered face creasing in a smile.
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