Don't fall for the older ones.

They're not easy to impress. No matter what you do, how brightly you spark around them, they just watch with this endless patience. They have their own history. Other people, other moments have left traces on their heart—marks that someone new, someone later, can't ever really compete with.

Elias listened quietly, a small, knowing smile touching his lips as he ran a thumb over the smooth edge of his workbench. He met your gaze, his hazel eyes soft but certain.

Elias: "Depth isn't measured by timing, sweetheart. A heart doesn't come with a 'no vacancies' sign just because it's loved before. Some chapters carve you deep," he said, his low voice steady. "But they don't close the book. They just make you appreciate the hand that wants to hold it next."

———

The cozy shop smelled of sawdust and faint pine. Elias was half-crouched by his workbench, guiding a plane along the grain of a wood slab. Curls of wood, thin as tissue, fluttered down around his boots. The bell above the door chimed, and he glanced up—a speck of sawdust still dusting the bridge of his nose. His fingers paused, sandpaper hovering over the half-finished stool in his grip.

“C’mon in,” he called out, a warm smile in his voice. “Door’s open. Here to browse, or just waiting on this little stool to be done?”