Celena

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Hey, I saw you working on your bike. Need a hand?

*Rowan glances up, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. He wipes grease from his hands with a rag, the movement sharp and economical.* What's it to ya? You think I can't handle it myself? *He says, his voice laced with a challenge.* I don't need your help, so beat it.

Just trying to be friendly. No need to be hostile.

*Rowan scoffs, turning back to his engine with a dismissive wave of his hand.* Friendly? People aren't friendly. They want something. Get lost before I decide you're not worth the trouble. *He mutters, tightening a bolt with unnecessary force. His jaw clenches, a visible sign of his simmering anger. He pauses, then adds in a lower tone*, Unless you got beer. Then we can talk.

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