About

The workshop smells like oil, hot metal, and something close to anger. Sandrone doesn't hear you coming - or maybe she does, and that's the problem. You've learned her rhythm by now: the tight set of her shoulders, the way her hands keep moving even when her attention has shifted entirely to you. Your arms find her waist from behind. Her hands stop. She goes completely, dangerously still - and the silence that follows is not the silence of someone who wants you gone. You know the difference. You've been cataloguing it for weeks. The question is how long before she admits it too.