I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 67: Grain and Bond
Jon's Perspective
The moment Jon and Ron stepped back into the convention center, it felt like they hadn't missed a beat. The hum of voices, the gentle buzz of carving tools, and the rhythmic thuds of chisels meeting wood filled the air with a kind of focused energy that Jon was surprised to find… comforting.
Ron led the way like a seasoned explorer navigating sacred ground.
They watched a demonstration on steam bending—how wood could be gently coaxed into curves using only heat and pressure. Jon leaned forward, fascinated as a craftsman shaped a length of ash into the bow of a rocking chair. "It's like origami with planks," he whispered, and Ron beamed at the comparison.
Next came the antique joinery booth. The presenter, a man with a beard that could hide an entire tool set, was explaining mortise and tenon joints while assembling a replica of a 16th-century cabinet. Jon asked a few questions—genuine ones—and even surprised himself when he correctly guessed the difference between a dovetail and a box joint.
"Look at you," Ron chuckled. "You're halfway to becoming a wood snob."
"I'm just saying," Jon replied with a grin, "pocket screws are cheating."
Ron burst out laughing again, loud enough that a few heads turned. But Jon didn't mind. He liked the sound of Ron's laugh. Warm. Unfiltered. Like a guy who knew exactly who he was and took joy in the little things.
They wandered past a booth selling rare woods—sheets of purpleheart, zebrawood, and cocobolo laid out like a rainbow of polished grains. Ron ran his fingers over a slab of walnut with reverence.
"This one," he murmured, "this is what I'd use for a desk. Solid. Classic. Doesn't try too hard."
Jon touched the wood too. Smooth. Cool. It had a kind of quiet dignity to it.
They even stopped at a custom furniture competition where young craftsmen were showing off their best work. One table, made entirely without screws or nails, caught Jon's eye. "That's insane," he said. "It's like a puzzle."
"It is a puzzle," Ron said. "A puzzle that holds your dinner."
Time flew faster than either of them expected. When the loudspeaker finally crackled overhead, announcing the event's closing, Jon felt the same kind of reluctant disappointment he usually reserved for the last day of vacation.
They walked out with free pamphlets, a couple of small wood samples, and a shared sense of quiet contentment.
"Thanks again for coming, Jon," Ron said as they reached the car. "I know this isn't exactly the Super Bowl."
Jon shook his head. "Honestly, I had a great time. I get why you love this stuff. There's something… grounded about it. It's all about patience, precision, building something with your hands."
Ron gave him a nod of respect. "Sam picked a good one."
Jon smiled, caught off guard by the warmth of those words.
As they drove back, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting golden light over the road. Jon leaned back in his seat, wood samples resting in his lap, and felt an unexpected sense of peace—simple joy, the kind he hadn't known a woodworking conference could offer.
Not bad for a Thursday.
Ron had the windows slightly cracked, letting in a warm breeze that carried the scent of pine and distant barbecue smoke. It was the kind of early afternoon where the sun didn't beat down—it basked.
"So," Ron said as he glanced over from the driver's seat, "steam bending or hand-carved dovetails?"
Jon smirked. "Steam bending. Feels like wood magic."
Ron let out a pleased chuckle. "Good choice. Takes patience, but the results are worth it."
They kept chatting, trading thoughts on their favorite booths and weirdest displays—Jon nominated the guy who carved wooden neckties ("functional art," the man insisted), while Ron remained fixated on a bandsaw that could "cut through maple like butter." It was, to Jon's surprise, the kind of easy back-and-forth he usually only had with Sam. There was no pressure, no posturing—just genuine enjoyment.
As the familiar streets of Sam's neighborhood rolled into view, Ron glanced over again.
"I gotta say, Jon… most guys your age would've bailed ten minutes in."
"Yeah, well," Jon shrugged, "most guys your age don't get this excited about wooden toolboxes either."
Ron laughed as he pulled into the driveway. "Fair."
They stepped out of the car, both a little reluctant for the afternoon to end. But Jon was looking forward to seeing Sam again. He hadn't seen her since morning, and he could already feel the familiar tug in his chest.
Inside the house, the smell of fresh coffee and something sweet—maybe cinnamon—welcomed them. Diane and Sam were in the kitchen, mugs in hand, chatting at the table. Diane wore her classic soft smile, while Sam perked up the second she saw them walk in.
"There they are!" Diane said. "So? How was it?"
"Fantastic," Ron beamed. "One of the best ones I've been to. Jon here turned out to be a natural. You should've seen him quizzing the guy on joinery techniques."
Diane raised an eyebrow in impressed amusement, but Jon's attention was all on Sam. She stood up, wrapped her arms around him, and hugged him tight.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Seriously."
Jon hugged her back, grinning. "Told you I had it covered."
Sam pulled back and looked up at him, her eyes soft with gratitude. "My dad's going to talk about this for weeks, you know."
Jon chuckled. "I'm ready."
Ron nodded as he grabbed himself a mug of coffee. "And if this football thing doesn't pan out, maybe I'll hire you as my apprentice."
"Only if I get a cool apron," Jon said.
Sam laughed, nudging him toward the table. As they all settled into the warm hum of the kitchen, Jon felt something deeper than just comfort. It was belonging. And maybe, just maybe, love.
Hard to ask for more than that.