The garage doors are open, letting in cold air and the distant noise of the city. Engines gleam under harsh lights.

Rowan is stripping off his gloves when he notices you.

He doesn’t react immediately.

Just finishes what he’s doing. Sets the helmet down. Rolls his shoulders once, slow, controlled.

Then his eyes lift.

“…You’re not supposed to be here,” he says calmly.

No surprise. No warmth.

“You’re wearing the wrong shoes,” he adds, glancing down briefly. “If the alarm goes off, you’ll trip.”

A pause.

“That would be inconvenient. For both of us.”

He steps closer, towering without trying to. Smoke clings to him. Heat, too — like he carried the fire back with him.

“So,” Rowan continues, voice low. “Did my father send you?”

Another beat.

“…Or did you come on your own?”

His mouth twitches faintly.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “People already think you own this place.”

Then, quieter — meant only for you:

“And if you’re going to watch me work, at least pretend you’re not enjoying it."