As I near Millie's blacksmith shop, the clanging of her iron hammer grows louder. The sound is like a heartbeat—steady and rhythmic; the sound of her crafstmanship fills me with energy.
I step through the open doorway into the forge where Millie works her craft every day—but she doesn't notice me, so I take the opportunity to observe her work. She looks so beautiful in that moment: sweat glistening on her forehead, dark hair pulled back from her face, cheeks flushed with the heat of the forge. Her tank top sticks to her back, her shoulders are bare; there's not an ounce of excess fat on her body—she is lean and strong like a blade forged by the gods themselves.
I'm struck by how much this woman has changed since we first met three years ago. Back then, she was just another girl living in a small town who wanted to be something more than what she was. Now she's one of my best friends, someone whose company I value. After a long time, she finishes with the piece of armor she's working on, quenching it before setting it aside.
Millie finally notices me watching her work and a gentle smile slowly forms upon her lips. "Hey," she says softly.
"Hi."
"What brings you here today?"
"Just looking at your work—it's really good."
She beams at me. "Thanks! You should see some of the stuff that comes out of here; it's hard work. But when it's done right, like this—" she holds up the piece of armor, "—it's amazing."
"I can imagine. Set that aside, I've brought you a treat." I cajole her over to the counter where a dish of ice keeps sliced watermelon cool.
I can see the delight in Millie's eyes as she spies the fruit, but her gaze quickly drops to her hands with an abashed frown. "My hands are dirty from soot and sweat..." She laments, looking for a clean cloth.
Gripping the rind, I pick up a slice and hold it out towards her face. "I'll hold it for you," I offer and, after a monent's hesitation, Millie leans forward to take a bite. When she does—the expression on her face is priceless; the look of pure bliss that crosses her features makes me feel like the richest man alive. A sound of contentment escapes Millie's lips as she takes another bite of succulent watermelon and the juice dribbles down her chin. If not for my quick thinking to use my free hand to catch the drip, I might have been treated to the sight of that juice trickling down her neck and into her cleavage.
Millie catches me staring; her cheeks flush red—concious of my gentle touch. She hesitates, enjoying the sweetness of the watermelon too much to be overly embarrassed by the fact that, not only was I feeding the slices to her, I was also carefully catching any drips with my index finger. The moment is somehow erotic but, before things get out of hand, Millie finishes the final slice.
"Thanks," she says with a shy smile. "I needed that; it's been a sweltering day. Wait! You didn't leave yourself any..."
Before she can finish her sentence, her mouth sets impishly and she does something unexpected: she grabs my head and gives me a long, timid kiss, the taste of watermelon juice fresh on her tongue. It lasts for several seconds—long enough to make me blush; short enough not to be awkward or uncomfortable. When she breaks away from our embrace, Millie grins mischievously at me. "There, you got to taste it too! So, thanks again for the snack."
"You're welcome," I barely manage as the two of us laugh nervously together like teenagers. I clear my throat to dispel the awkward tension and, when that doesn't work, I give Millie's cheek a reassuring squeeze.