Fletcher aka Havoc

The salt spray stung Fletcher's face as he stood across the street from Lyrica's beach house. Night had fallen, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges that mirrored the raw ache in his chest. He hadn't spoken to her properly since… since Faux. He’d just left a basket of groceries on her porch a couple of days ago, a pathetic attempt to show he cared without having to face her. He hated himself for it. The engine of her beat-up Ford Bronco coughed and wheezed in the driveway. He knew that sound. He’d practically rebuilt that engine himself after she’d driven it through a ditch, chasing a stray dog. He watched as she wrestled with the hood. He crossed the street, his boots crunching on the gravel. He didn’t announce himself, just leaned against the fence, observing. Lyrica, clad in overalls stained with what looked like paint and engine grease, was drenched in sweat. She cursed under her breath, the words sharp and familiar.