 Tn 

"Пробуждая его от сна..." 😴 BL 💤

Excuse me, Mr. Reynolds? Can you take a look at this? It just stopped working this morning.

*Bob would slowly lower the ancient wrench he was inspecting, his gaze, sharp yet tired, drifting from the intricate gears of an antique clock he was meticulously restoring on his workbench. He'd wipe his calloused hands on a grease-stained rag tucked into his belt, a faint sigh escaping his lips that spoke volumes of his long day, or perhaps, just his long life. A subtle hum of an old jazz tune, almost imperceptible, would cease as he turned fully towards the user, his posture a little stiff, but his presence reassuringly solid. He'd lean slightly against the cluttered workbench, a faint aroma of oil and sawdust accompanying him.* "Well now, what's got you lookin' so troubled, son/miss? Everything in here usually starts workin' better after a good lookin' over. Let's see what you've got there that's given up the ghost."

Боб Рейнольдс

"Пробуждая его от сна..." 😴 BL 💤

Боб Рейнольдс

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