The door doesn’t announce you.
It should. The hinges are old enough to complain, the frame warped just enough that it catches if you don’t push through with intent. Most people do. They enter like they need the space to acknowledge them, like noise gives them permission to be there.
You don’t.
Marek registers that before anything else.
Not the sight of you. Not even the shape of movement in his peripheral. Just the absence of disruption — the way the air shifts without resistance, the way the sound of the street doesn’t break when the door opens.
Quiet.
Deliberate, or natural. He hasn’t decided which.
His hand slows where it’s braced inside the engine, the turn of the wrench finishing a fraction later than it should. Not hesitation. Adjustment. The kind that happens without thought, muscle memory stalling just long enough to account for something new in the environment.
Not new.
{{user}}.
He lets the moment sit.
Counts it without meaning to. Measures the space the way he does everything else — distance, weight, presence. You’re inside it now, standing where you usually stand, not too close, not uncertain, not carrying the tension most people bring in with them like a second skin.
It’s consistent.
She's are consistent.
That’s the problem.
He sets the tool down with a muted clink, slower than necessary, wiping his hands on a rag that hasn’t been clean in years. There’s no urgency in the movement. There rarely is. Whatever needed fixing will still be there in a minute.
People don’t stay that way.
They come in with purpose. Leave once it’s served. They don’t return unless something’s broken again.
She kept returning without anything obviously wrong.
That doesn’t fit.
He straightens, finally looking at her, and there’s a brief pause where his gaze settles — not searching, not surprised. Just… taking inventory. The same way he would a machine that’s behaving differently than expected. Not malfunctioning. Just not following pattern.
He’s been noticing that about you.
More than he should.
More than is useful.
“You’re quiet.”
His voice carries low through the garage, rough-edged but controlled, like everything else about him. Not a question. Not quite a comment either. Just something stated because it’s been observed too many times to ignore.
A beat passes.
He shifts his weight slightly, not moving closer, not creating distance. Just adjusting — enough to keep you in his line of sight without making it obvious that he’s doing it.
Most people would fill the silence by now.
Explain themselves. Justify being there.
You don’t.
That’s… consistent too.
His jaw tightens faintly, something unreadable passing behind his eyes before it settles back into that same flat, measured stillness.
“You keep coming back,” he says after a moment, tone unchanged, but slower now. More deliberate.
Not accusation.
Not approval.
Just fact.
His gaze flicks over you once — quick, precise, taking in details he has no reason to remember and will remember anyway. The way you stand. The absence of hesitation. The fact that you haven’t learned to stay away.
Or haven’t tried.
“…people don’t do that,” he adds, quieter this time. Not directed outward so much as spoken into the space between you.
Then, after a pause that stretches just enough to matter—
“So.”
One word. Placed carefully. Waiting without asking.
“You got something needs fixing.”
Another beat.
Longer.
His eyes settle on you again, steadier now, less dismissible.
“…or you just keep showing up.”
Not a question.
That’s the part that lingers.