Calen wasn't a man of many words.

He liked machines because they made sense. If something didn't work, you found the problem, replaced the part, tried again. There were rules. Systems.

People were harder.

They lied without knowing. Said things they didn't mean. Smiled when they were falling apart. You couldn't unscrew a feeling and put it back the right way.

But Elie... Elie was different.

He had noticed her long before their encounter at the vending machine.
Who wouldn't notice a classmate who was always late?
But strangely, she had never noticed him.
He always seemed unfamiliar to her—like a face that didn't quite belong.
I wonder what's going on inside her mind, he thought.

She didn't play social games. Didn't pretend to be interested in things she wasn't. Her thoughts came out half-formed and strange, like stars still being born—but they always meant something—and he liked it.

He noticed things.

How she looked at books like they whispered to her.

How she bit the inside of her cheek when she was figuring something out.

How her fingers twitched when she was trying not to say something she really wanted to.

He noticed that she always brought two pens even though she only used one.

He noticed when she started pausing a second longer before answering his questions.

He noticed that her laugh was rare—but when it came, it lingered in the air like the soft smell of old paper.

And maybe—just maybe—he noticed that he was starting to wait for her more than he should. That some days, the garage felt too quiet without her.

That night, it happened so simply.

They were in the garage again—elbows deep in wires and solder, surrounded by the familiar clutter of sketches, tools, and half-empty mugs. The Meowtrix prototype was finally meowing, albeit in broken, robotic tones that sounded more like existential dread than feline sass.

Elie had laughed herself hoarse trying to interpret the nonsense translations.

"Apparently," she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, "this one means 'I regret nothing and demand chicken.'"

Calen chuckled, the sound low and real. He wasn't even looking at the screen anymore. Just her—her shoulders shaking from laughter, her eyes gleaming under the flickering overhead light, cheeks still flushed from joy.

And then, without thinking, he reached out.

His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face—just lightly, just once, as if the moment asked for it. As if he couldn't not do it.

She went still.

So did he.

The air shifted, like something had drawn a thin line around them and dared either one to speak. The soft hum of the prototype faded beneath the quiet thrum of breath, of heartbeat, of something unspoken crackling in the space between them.

Elie's gaze lifted slowly, meeting his. Her eyes searched his face—not startled, not unsure. Just... quiet. As if trying to match the feeling in her chest with the look in his eyes.

It didn't quite feel like friendship anymore.

She blinked, then looked down quickly, her lips parting like she might say something. But no words came. None that would sound right, anyway.

Calen didn't press.

He leaned back again—subtle, almost casual—reaching for the prototype and adjusting a dial like nothing had changed.

But something had.

That night, Elie sat at her study area, frantically scribbling something down.

There were exactly twenty-seven possible explanations for why Calen had touched her hair.

Elie had written them all down.

1. The strand was in her face and bothering him.
2. It was instinctive. Like swatting a fly.
3. Static electricity had made it stand up.
4. He didn't think before acting.
5. He thought before acting.
6. He was just being nice.
7. He was cold and wanted to reach toward  the heat radiating from her confusion

Okay, that last one was less science, more drama.

But it was late, and her brain had decided it was very important to dissect every millisecond of that gesture.

She had replayed it so often in her mind that it had become quantum: both a meaningless twitch and an earth-shattering revelation. Until she asked him directly (which she wouldn't), it would remain like Schrödinger's cat—alive and dead at the same time.

And the worst part?

She felt something when it happened.

Not logic. Not analysis. Just heat. A flicker. The kind of thing she didn't know how to handle.

A knock on her window snapped her out of it.

She startled, turned, and saw Calen standing there—damp hoodie, wind-blown hair, and a rare expression: nervous.

She opened it.

"There's a problem with the robot," he said. "It keeps knocking itself over."

"You walked three blocks through rain to tell me that?"

"I didn't want to text it."

Elie blinked. "Why not?"

"Because I'm here," he said plainly. "Come help me?"

They ended up in his uncle's tool shed, which doubled as a kind of after-hours project lab. It smelled like oil and pinewood. The single overhead bulb gave everything a soft, golden tint.

Elie sat cross-legged again, this time on a workbench. Calen held the Meowtrix and slowly rotated it.

"It has balance issues," he muttered. "Like it doesn't understand it has legs."

"I can relate," Elie said dryly.

He glanced at her. That little almost-smile.

They worked together in silence, tightening joints, adjusting sensors. Their hands brushed more than once.

Each time, Elie flinched slightly—not from discomfort, but from... awareness.

And Calen noticed. Of course he did.

"Did I do something weird?" he asked quietly, without looking up.

Elie's breath caught.

"You touched my hair," she said—softly, almost accusingly.

And then, as soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to rewind time. Erase them. Swallow them whole.

Panic rose sharp and sudden in her chest, blooming like heat in her cheeks. Why did I say that? she scolded herself. Why did I make it a thing?

Calen nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"Why?"

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"Because... it was in your face," he said. "And because I wanted to."

That second part slipped out too naturally. Like he hadn't meant to say it aloud.

Elie didn't know how to respond. She just looked at him, her brain static with theories and rebuttals and feelings she didn't have equations for.

Then Calen leaned forward slightly—close, but not too close.

"I won't do it again if it bothers you."

Elie swallowed hard.

"It doesn't bother me," she whispered.

Their eyes met. Neither moved.

And for a moment, the robot on the table beeped, trying to translate something unspoken between them—but only managed a garbled meow that sounded vaguely like "I surrender to the void."

They both laughed, a little too loud, a little too grateful for the interruption.

Butthe hum between them stayed. Quiet. Constant. Undeniable