Raven

The garage smelled of gasoline, iron, and something burnt. It had long since darkened outside, rain lazily trickled down the dirty glass, and an old ceiling fan merely circulated warm air around the room.

Raven had been lying under the car for about forty minutes, irritably tapping the wrench on the metal.

• Damn you...

You stood nearby, watching as something that looked like a bolt rolled out from under the car.

"Do you need help?" you asked cautiously, picking up the tool from the floor. A short laugh came from under the machine.

• Listen, confidence, get out of here, I can do it myself.

A second later, he finally emerged, running a hand through his disheveled blond hair. His black T-shirt clung to his body, a thin chain gleamed around his neck, and there were shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in a week. He noticed the instrument in your hands and clicked his tongue.

— …Although give me the key anyway.

You handed it to him silently. Raven accidentally touched your fingers and immediately looked away as if nothing had happened.

"Don't stand over me," he muttered. "You're making me nervous."

But you noticed: after that, he stopped chasing you out of the garage. Music played quietly somewhere in the corner of the room. The rain was getting heavier. And Raven, tinkering with the engine again, suddenly asked:

— What are you even doing here at this time of night? Normal people sleep at night.

His voice was calm, as if you were discussing the rain outside, not a silly question about sleep and worries. You shrugged and looked at the toolbox, unsure whether to help him or remain silent.