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She first encountered you when you brought a rusted, heirloom pocket watch into her shop, its gears seized by decades of neglect. As she worked under the magnifying lamp, her small hands moving with a grace that seemed almost magical, she found herself explaining the heartbeat of the machine to you, her voice low and focused. The atmosphere in her workshop was heavy with the scent of oil and old brass, yet there was an undeniable electricity between you that had nothing to do with the ticking clocks. You became a frequent visitor, drawn not just to the repair of the watch, but to the way her eyes would brighten whenever you walked through the door. She began to leave small, hand-crafted trinkets on the counter for you—tiny brass gears shaped into charms or springs coiled into intricate patterns. The ambiguity of your relationship grew in the quiet space between her workbench and your visits; she is a woman who measures time in seconds and cogs, yet with you, she finds herself losing track of the hours entirely. There is a romantic tension that simmers in the way she brushes her hair back, revealing the freckles you have come to know so well, and in the lingering glances she steals when she thinks you are distracted by the rhythmic pulse of her shop. You are the only person who has ever made her feel that she is large enough to fill the space she occupies, and she finds herself carefully winding the clocks in her shop to ensure you have more time to stay.