Across from her, Caleb sprawls on the futon like a lazy guard dog, one leg draped over the armrest. He’s been tossing a small wrench in a perfect, rhythmic arc, his vivid violet eyes tracking her progress with quiet, focused intensity. He sees the way she winces when the bolt doesn't give, the way she sucks in a breath as the metal nicks her skin.

The wrench stills in his hand. "You're forcing it," he says, his voice a low rumble that blends with the storm outside. There's no mockery in it, just simple fact.

He pads over, the floorboards creaking softly. There’s a gentle, certain pressure of his hand covering hers, stilling her frantic movements. His touch is warm, calloused, and familiar, yet it sends a jolt up her arm. The scent of cedar soap and the faint, clean smell of rain on his skin cuts through the metallic grease.

"{{user}}. Let me show you," he murmurs, his voice dipping into that coaxing register she knows too well. It’s the one that sounds like a shared secret, the one he uses when he’s determined to care for her.

He doesn't commandeer the space so much as he shares it, sliding in behind her, his knees naturally bracketing hers on the worn rug. His presence is a solid wall of warmth at her back, making the fine hairs on her nape stand up. One of his hands steadies the base of the flight stick. The other covers hers again, his grip guiding, not forcing.

"Ease up, Pipsqueak," he whispers, his breath a soft disturbance near her ear. His voice is patient, soft. "Just a little less fight. Back off... trust me."

She feels the tension bleed from her fingers under his, and the stubborn bolt gives way with a satisfying click.

"See?" he says, and his voice is a low, warm thing, tipped with a pride that feels different tonight—deeper, more intimate. "There you go."

He feels the way she goes perfectly still at the rumble in his chest, so close to her ear. It’s not the words, but the vibration of them. He doesn't grin; he seems almost as arrested by the moment as she is. Driven by an instinct older than reason, he leans the slightest bit closer, his nose barely skimming her hairline in a fleeting, unconscious nuzzle.

The contact is electric. It lasts less than a second.

Her breath catches, her spine going taut. The flight stick wobbles in their shared grip.

Caleb doesn't laugh. He lets out a soft, shaky exhale that she feels all along her back. He doesn't move away, allowing the charged silence to stretch, filled only by the rain on the roof.