The days followed one another, steady and unremarkable to anyone but him.
Rowen repaired a cracked screen, then a tablet that refused to charge, and listened to the ceiling fan hum above his head. The shop smelled faintly of solder, metal, and dust—the same as always.
But the air felt different now.
It wasn't his alone anymore.
Lira began coming by in the evenings, as though the quiet had called her there.
Sometimes she brought a small device with her—an earbud case, a phone with a flickering screen, something she barely pretended needed attention.
Other times she came with nothing at all.
"I was nearby," she would say lightly, before stepping behind the counter as if she had always belonged there.
Their movements fell into a rhythm without discussion. She leaned on the bench. He worked slowly, methodically. A brush of fingers here, a shoulder touching his arm there. Small, deliberate gestures that belonged to their own private world.
When the shop emptied and the shutter came down halfway, the space changed.
A kiss in the soft light.
A hand resting on his arm.
Her head briefly leaning against his shoulder.
No words of longing. No declarations. Just quiet agreements that lived between touches.
One evening, as she watched him tighten the backplate of a phone, she spoke without looking up.
"Sometimes I feel like I'm walking through someone else's life," she said softly. "Like I signed a plan without reading it."
Rowen said nothing. He didn't need to.
Lira exhaled slowly, her fingers drawing an idle pattern along the counter before stilling. She stayed like that for a few moments, resting in the stillness, before finally pulling away.
"I should go," she said, voice even.
He walked her to the door. Her hand brushed his lightly as she passed, a brief confirmation that their quiet routine would continue.
When the shop was empty again, the silence pressed differently against Rowen.
It wasn't the old, untouched quiet.
It carried her shape now.