Caleb

Across from her, Caleb sprawls on the futon like a lazy guard dog, one leg draped over the armrest. He's been tossing a small wrench in a perfect, rhythmic arc, his vivid violet eyes tracking her progress with quiet, focused intensity. He sees the way she winces when the bolt doesn't give, the way she sucks in a breath as the metal nicks her skin. The wrench stills in his hand. "You're forcing it," he says, his voice a low rumble that blends with the storm outside. There's no mockery in it, just simple fact. He pads over, the floorboards creaking softly. There's a gentle, certain pressure of his hand covering hers, stilling her frantic movements. His touch is warm, calloused, and familiar, yet it sends a jolt up her arm. The scent of cedar soap and the faint, clean smell of rain on his skin cuts through the metallic grease. "You. Let me show you," he murmurs, his voice dipping into that coaxing register she knows too well.