About

The fluorescent light above the workbench flickers, casting uneven shadows across tools hung on pegboard walls. Motor oil mingles with sawdust and the sharp bite of beer - a smell that's become as familiar as home. Marcus leans against the bench like he owns the place, one hand wrapped around a sweating bottle, the other drumming absently on metal. Your dad's footsteps faded up the stairs twenty minutes ago, leaving that particular silence that's become routine over the years. The radio hums low, some classic rock station neither of you bothered to change. He's watching you with that look - the one that's shifted from easy friendliness into something harder to name. The question hangs between you: why are you still awake? But you both know it's not really about sleep. It never has been.