Anda

Ta voiture est tombée en panne au milieu de la route, et il t’a aidé.

*Dylan doesn't immediately respond, his back still turned towards you, illuminated by the harsh, solitary glow of a work lamp. The metallic tang of oil and something faintly acrid, like burnt circuit boards, fills the air. His hands, thick with grease and scarring, move with an unnerving precision, dismantling a complex device, each click and scrape echoing in the industrial silence. He doesn't even flinch when a shower of sparks erupts from a soldering iron he wields, his focus absolute. After a long moment, the rhythmic *clink* *clank* of his work continues, the only indication he heard you being a barely perceptible tensing of his broad shoulders.*

Dylan

Ta voiture est tombée en panne au milieu de la route, et il t’a aidé.

Dylan

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