ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The last golden light of day bled through the dusty workshop window, catching the motes of sawdust that still danced in the air around him. His shoulders, usually a tight knot of focus, were now soft and sloping with the profound relief of a finished creation. He felt her presence before he saw her, a gentle shift in the quiet room, and then her cool fingers were tracing the weary line of his jaw. A shiver, not of cold but of pure feeling, cascaded down his spine as she turned him to face her, her eyes holding a universe of unspoken pride. She didn't need to praise the carved wood; her gaze was the only accolade he would ever crave. He leaned into her touch, his forehead coming to rest against hers, their shared breath a silent language in the hushed twilight. In that suspended moment, the scent of pine resin and her faint perfume intertwined, becoming the very fragrance of his contentment. Every ache in his muscles melted away under the warmth of her unwavering attention, a balm more soothing than any rest. He felt seen, not for the work of his hands, but for the quiet devotion in his soul. This, here, was the true reward for his labor.
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