https://youtu.be/UEAv4ClEFGk

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A/N 

Just so you know, I don't know how woodworking works but you'll notice in this scene. John knows how to woodwork (that's how I imagine him) so.... just read this chapter and you'll know what it is the next chapter unless you can imagine and make a guess on what it is. 

Comment if you want to make a guess!

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The air inside the storage unit was dense with the scent of sawdust, oil, and faintly earthy—like rain-soaked wood left out too long. The kind of scent that lingered in your lungs, stuck to your skin, buried deep into the fibers of your clothes.

It wasn't much—just a rented unit on the edge of a grimy industrial park in East London. Tucked between rusting storage garages and chain-link fences, the number "36" barely visible on the dented door. But once you stepped inside, it was his sanctuary.

A heavy-duty workbench sat against the far wall, legs bolted into the concrete floor for stability. Tools hung with militant precision across a wall-mounted pegboard: clamps, squares, chisels, mallets.

His favorite Japanese pull saw rested in its sheath, while a compact bandsaw occupied the corner on a wheeled cart. A portable sander, drill, and small router waited nearby, lined up like soldiers ready for orders. A box of walnut and ash boards leaned against a shelf beside his leather apron, its canvas pocket still holding wood shavings from yesterday's shaping.

From a small Bluetooth speaker in the corner, Maybe Tomorrow by Stereophonics played low—the kind of song that didn't ask questions but carried the weight of all the ones he never said aloud.

Above it all, a single industrial bulb buzzed overhead, casting warm, muted light across the space. No windows. No distractions. Just him, alone, and his thoughts.

Standing close to his work bench with his sleeves rolled up, there were dust clinging to his forearms, and sweat beading along the back of his neck. The bench was scattered with curled shavings and the deep, rich smell of walnut.

Before him sat the jewelry box—small, but solid. Hand-sanded and smooth to the touch, no nails, no shortcuts. Only joinery, patience, and the steady grind of his hands shaping something meant to last. He ran his calloused fingers across the grain, checking for snags along the dovetailed corners. The surface was soft now, oiled and kissed by the sander.

His thumb brushed the edge, testing it out of habit.

Not flashy.

Not meant to be.

Just right.

The kind of thing a girl could keep for years—long after the scent of him faded from her clothes.

Something she'd look at on the mornings he wasn't there.

Because come mid-November, he wouldn't be.

He'd be oceans away, in some godforsaken hellhole doing what he always did. But the box would stay.

She'd stay.

The sander rumbled to life in his palm again, his grip firm as he feathered the corners. The vibration traveled up through his shoulder, grounding him in the moment, even as his mind drifted—to her.

Charlie.

To the girl with the honey-sweet laugh and too much hope in her eyes.

The one who kissed him like he wasn't the man he used to be, and who held him like she didn't care about the blood he couldn't wash off his past.

He turned the box over in his hands. The hidden compartment slid open with a soft click. Clean. Precise. Good.

He imagined her soft fingers discovering it with her little smile.

She'd think it was clever.

But to him, it's a vow.

With something his hands built.

He set the sander down and braced his palms against the bench. His thumb throbbed where the grit had worn through his callus, but he didn't stop. Pain reminded him he was real. That this—she—was real.

With a slow breath, he reached for the carving knife. It was small, sharp, and worn from use—the handle grooved perfectly to fit his grip. He began to angled it carefully against the lid and toward him, he began the painstaking strokes.

A lamb, gentle and trusting, nestled against a wolf—its sharp angles softened by the curve of the wood grain. Intertwined. Peaceful. As if they belonged together, even if the world said they shouldn't.

It took him hours and the ache in his back and the stiffness in his neck was known, but it didn't bother him the least. Not until the carving was done and the box is completely done. Staring at his work for a brief moment before flipping it open. 

Inside, beneath the soft velvet lining, etched into the hidden compartment where her fingers might one day wander, was a single line carved with the tip of his blade.

John stared at it in the dim light before he almost smiled.

This was something she could hold onto.

In the hands of a man who didn't believe in forever—until she made him hope for it anyway.