Don't screw up

He held out the ratchet with a grin. "I got you something."

She raised an eyebrow. "A ratchet? Really?"

"Well," he said, leaning back, "I figured you had a screw loose."

She didn't flinch. "And you thought you'd be the one to fix me?"

"Fix you? No. I like you the way you are. Unpredictable. Slightly terrifying. Keeps life interesting."

Their exchange was like that. always quick, always sharp. He'd reference physics and the cosmos in the same breath as a punchline. She'd counter with something so disarming it made him forget his point entirely. They orbited each other in a way that felt effortless, each pushing and pulling with just the right force.

She was the kind of person who burned herself with coffee because she couldn't wait for it to cool. He was the kind who'd calculate the exact temperature at which it was safe to drink and then forget where he put the cup. Together, they made a strange sort of sense.

"You know," she said, turning the ratchet over in her hands, "trust is a lot like this. You can tighten things. Or you can loosen them. Depends on what you're going for."

"And what are you going for?"

She smiled. the kind that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Guess you'll find out."

He should have paid more attention to that smile.

Her eyes glowed with a bizarre intensity. Before he could react, she seized the ratchet. and swung.

The impact was sharp, sudden, final. His vision blurred. Sound drained away. The world tilted.

As consciousness slipped, one thought surfaced: she wasn't eccentric. She wasn't quirky. She was something else entirely.

Don't screw up.