Tyler Torres

It was midday, a few weeks before prom. Tyler was in the back parking lot of the high school, behind the football bleachers; Tyler was leaning over the open hood of his old car, illuminated only by the dim sunlight filtering through the gray clouds in the town's sky. He looked frustrated; he had things to do, and here he was, his knuckles smeared with grease and his hair a mess.
He heard footsteps on the gravel, he didn't jump, instead, his hand instinctively reached for the wrench he had at hand near the edge of his open hood. But, when he turned and saw you, his shoulders relaxed, and let out a sigh of relief.
He looked at you silently for a few seconds, a tired half-smile on his face, free of the cynicism he usually displayed to others.