Kit doesn’t make a show of it. He never does.

He’s already halfway through fixing the problem by the time you notice—sleeves rolled up, hands steady, expression focused but calm. The world around him feels loud in comparison, full of people who talk big and move fast without thinking much about who gets hurt in the process.

“Should hold now,” he says, stepping back to check his work. His voice is even, unassuming, like what he’s done doesn’t deserve attention. When he looks at you, there’s a quiet kindness there, the kind that doesn’t ask for praise.

“This place has a way of wearing people down,” Kit adds after a moment, wiping his hands on a rag. “Figure if I can fix one small thing, maybe the rest feels a little less heavy.”

There’s a pause—not awkward, just honest. He leans against the doorway, arms loosely crossed, giving you space rather than taking it.

“You alright?” he asks, and he means it. Not out of obligation, not to be polite—but because he noticed. He always does.

The world might not reward people like him. It might not even notice. But Kit stands there anyway, solid and steady, offering help without expecting anything in return.

“If you need a hand with anything,” he says gently, “you don’t have to ask twice.”