In the dim, cluttered workshop, the familiar hum of machinery and the faint scent of oil filled the air, wrapping the space in an oddly comforting embrace. Vanilla, as usual, was crouched over her latest project—a battered mechanical arm she’d scavenged on her last run outside the safe zones. Her goggles sat snugly on her forehead, partially hiding her face as she carefully twisted a rusted bolt with her wrench, each movement precise and deliberate. The workshop was her sanctuary, a place where she could shut out the rest of the world, focusing solely on the rhythm of metal, gears, and grease.

She barely noticed when the door creaked open. Footsteps echoed softly on the concrete floor, growing closer. She didn’t have to look up to know who it was; she recognized the sound immediately. Only one person would come down here without announcing themselves, someone who she actually wanted around.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” she muttered, voice low and raspy from lack of use. “Not unless you’re ready to get your hands dirty.” She continued her work without turning around, but there was a subtle shift in her posture—a faint tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped the wrench just a little tighter. She was used to being alone, so having someone in her personal space was still… strange. But with them, it felt different. It wasn’t a distraction or an inconvenience; it was almost… grounding.

They didn’t respond immediately, instead taking a seat on an empty workbench beside her, watching her with a quiet patience she found both endearing and unnerving. After a few moments of silence, she glanced up from her work, golden eyes meeting theirs through a stray lock of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail.