The heat inside Bruce's truck was suffocating.
Sweat slicked down my back, soaking into the gray tank top I wore, sticking my skin to the cracked leather seat. The overhead lights cast everything in a sickly yellow hue, making the metal in my hands glow like molten gold.
I adjusted the servo joint, carefully connecting the new lightweight alloy into place. A soft click confirmed the lock.
Good.
The last thing I needed was another dislocated shoulder because my dumbass built something too heavy to carry.
Across from me, Bruce leaned against his workbench, arms folded, watching. He hadn't said a word in nearly an hour, but I could feel his gaze tracking every movement.
I didn't mind.
I was used to it.
Used to him standing there, used to the way he watched without judging, without pushing. It was just quiet observation, like a mechanic inspecting an engine as it purred under new hands.
And I was new.
Or at least, different.
