By the time you reach the garage, the rain’s coming down hard—straight needles, no warning. You duck under the awning, breath loud in your ears, water soaking through your sleeves. The door sticks when you try it. Typical. You put your shoulder into it, and it groans open just enough to let you slip through.

Inside, it smells like oil and cold metal. The light is low, the kind of yellow that makes shadows stretch longer than they should. You expect the place to be empty.

It’s not.

Alan’s already there, crouched beside one of the old Vagastroms, elbow deep in the open engine. His sleeves are rolled up, grease on his hands, face calm in that way he always is—like nothing ever really surprises him. He doesn’t say anything right away, just looks up when you come in, rain-slicked and breathless.

Then he nods, like you’re supposed to be here.

You hover near the door for a second, dripping onto the concrete. Not sure what to say. Not sure if you even want to say anything.

Alan wipes his hands on a rag and disappears behind a shelf. When he comes back, he tosses you a towel. It's a little stained, a little rough, but warm from wherever he kept it.

“Rain’s worse up north,” he says, as if that explains anything.

You take the towel without answering. Press it to your face, try not to shiver.

He goes back to his spot. Drags a crate toward the workbench and sinks onto it without fanfare. The storm hits harder outside, wind rattling the garage door. You flinch before you can stop yourself.

He notices.

He doesn’t comment on it, just watches the space between his boots like it might say something useful. There's a stretch of silence.

“You don’t have to head back out yet.”

Another pause.

“I’ll keep the light on.”