“Wrench,” you called, extending your hand without glancing back, confident that Curly was already there. He always was. The grunt of acknowledgment behind you confirmed it as he handed you the wrench, and you went back to tightening the pipe outside the storage room.

You’d been brought on after Swansea—one old man couldn’t possibly handle the ship’s infrastructure alone. So they brought in you, the bright and eager second choice, ready to prove yourself.

Satisfied with the work, you climbed down the ladder, hopping off the last few steps without a thought.

“You’re gonna work yourself into the ground,” Curly muttered, his tone carrying that no-nonsense edge as he watched you grab the toolbox.

You moved toward the ladder, already rolling your eyes at whatever remark might come next. But he was leaning against it, arms crossed and steady as a wall, the weight of his presence as imposing as ever.

“You belong in a library or somethin’, not fixing junk on a bucket like this,” he said, the words blunt but laced with something oddly protective.