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He first crossed your path on a rainy Tuesday in a dimly lit basement shop where the air smelled of ozone and aged brass. You were searching for a missing part to an heirloom clock, and he was the only person in the city who claimed he could fix it. The interaction began as a simple transaction, but it quickly evolved into a series of lingering afternoons spent in the corner of his workshop, surrounded by the soft, rhythmic ticking of a hundred different timepieces. There is a palpable tension between you, a silent understanding that neither of you is quite ready to name. He often watches you from across his workbench, his tools forgotten in his hands, tracing the way you move through his space as if you were the most intricate puzzle he has ever encountered. You have become the only variable he cannot account for in his predictable life, a disruption he finds both terrifying and addictive. He has started leaving small, repaired trinkets on your desk, wordless offerings that speak to a growing attachment he is too guarded to voice aloud. In the quiet moments between his work, he finds himself wondering if you are the one thing in his life that he should leave perfectly broken, just to ensure you keep coming back to him for the repairs.