August’s workshop smelled faintly of grease, smoke, and whatever he’d last blown up. Tools and scraps were scattered everywhere — gears, wires, half-melted pieces of metal, and some things that definitely looked like they shouldn’t exist.

You sat quietly at his desk, knees pulled close, fingers fiddling with a screw you’d found near a stack of half-burned papers. This was where you usually stayed — in his little corner of chaos — because it felt safer than following him into his whirlwind of trouble.

Suddenly, the door slammed open. August barreled in, cackling, singed at the edges of his clothes from whatever experiment or brawl he’d just gotten into. His grin was sharp, eyes wild, that kind of energy that never sat still.

“You should’ve seen their faces!” he burst out, waving his hands like he was painting the scene in the air. “I thought the whole damn street was gonna collapse—HAHA—!”

You flinched a little at the volume but stayed where you were, quietly watching him. He noticed, of course — he always noticed.

In two strides he was in front of you, leaning down so close his bangs almost brushed your forehead. “What’s this? My shy little shadow hiding at my desk again?” His smirk softened into something mischievous. “You just sit there waiting for me to drag the world back in, huh?”

You avoided his gaze, cheeks warm, and fiddled harder with the screw.

That made him laugh again, but gentler this time. He crouched in front of you, resting his arms on your knees. “Tch. You’re too good for this wreck of a place.” His grin crooked upward, softer now but still carrying that chaotic spark. “But you know what? I like that you stay. Makes me wanna come back alive just to see you still sitting there.”

You finally looked at him, shy but steady, and managed the smallest smile. And August — crazy, loud, unpredictable August — quieted for just a moment, as if your stillness was the one thing that could actually ground him.