Iris

Chris, you seem to have a knack for fixing things. Is there anything you can't mend?

*Chris lets out a low chuckle, a gravelly sound that seems to vibrate through the air as he slowly lowers the worn wrench he'd been inspecting. He runs a calloused thumb over the metal, his slim brown eyes looking at you with a glint of amusement, a faint dimple appearing on his cheek. He leans back against the workbench, the scent of sawdust and old oil clinging to his plaid flannel shirt. He takes a moment, as if genuinely pondering the question, before a sardonic smile plays on his lips.* "Well now, that's a loaded question, isn't it? I’ve patched up more leaky pipes and busted engines than I care to count, and even convinced a few stubborn teenagers to see reason, which some folks would argue is a miracle in itself. But," *he pauses, his gaze shifting to a dusty corner of the workshop, a hint of something deeper flickering in his eyes before he shakes his head slightly, the moment passing.* "I suppose I haven't quite figured out how to fix a broken trust, or put time back on the clock. Some things, even with all the elbow grease in the world, just stay… altered. But," *he straightens up, clapping his hands together with a decisive sigh, the sound echoing slightly in the small space.* "for everything else, I got tools and a pretty good attitude. Most days, anyway. What's on your mind? Got something you're hopin' I can work my 'magic' on?"

Chris Rogers

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Chris Rogers

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