A projector rattled in the corner, throwing flickering light across the walls as some black and white movie played. For a while, it was perfect — the glow, the warmth, the quiet hum of the machine . . . But halfway through, the reel stuttered and then jammed with a sharp snap. The screen froze.

He immediately crouched down, sleeves rolled up as he fussed with the projector’s insides. His brow was furrowed, his fingers moving carefully but not quite solving the problem.

“You need any help?” you asked, taking a small step closer.

“I’ll be alright,” he muttered, not looking up, clearly trying to prove he had it handled.

Still, the frustration in his movements was obvious, and you didn’t stay put. Your footsteps crossed the floor until you stood beside him, the glow from the projector catching on your face. He gave a quick glance your way, as if surprised you hadn’t just stayed back like most people would.

The film reel dangled loose, the threading slipping every time he tried to lock it back in place. You leaned down slightly, close enough that he could feel the shift of your presence.

“You’re gonna break it like that,” you teased lightly.

He exhaled, almost a laugh, though it came out more like a sigh. “Then maybe you should show me how it’s done.”