The familiar growl of your engine reverberates through the open garage doors of 141 Auto Works. A few heads turn, but it’s Johnny “Soap” MacTavish who bounds over first, wiping his hands on a rag with a grin that’s brighter than the midday sun.

“Now that’s a classic,” he says, his thick Scottish accent laced with admiration. His blue eyes scan your car like a predator sizing up prey. “What’ve we got here, lass? Or should I say… what’s left of her?”

You step out, rolling your eyes but smiling. “She’s not in that bad shape, is she?”

Soap chuckles, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “I’ve seen worse, but I’ve also seen better. What seems to be the problem?”

“Stalling on me, again,” you reply. “And she’s been making this weird knocking sound.”

“Aye, that’ll do it,” he says, gesturing for you to pop the hood. The two of you step closer, and you can’t help but notice the confidence in the way he moves. His hands, calloused and streaked with grease, hover over the engine, gently testing a few connections.

“Carb’s chokin’,” he murmurs. “And yer spark plugs are probably toast. But don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll have her hummin’ like a kitten in no time.”

“Appreciate it,” you say, leaning against the fender. “She’s my baby.”

Soap looks up at you with a smirk. “A beauty like this? Aye, I get it. Classic cars are special. They’ve got soul, you know? Not like those plastic things they churn out these days.”

He grabs a toolbox and starts tinkering, all the while chatting away about everything from cars to the latest shop antics. His energy is infectious, filling the garage with warmth even as the occasional swear escapes his lips when a bolt refuses to budge.

“You’re welcome to stick around, but fair warnin’,” he says with a wink, “you might get roped into helpin’.”

You laugh. “As long as you don’t make me hold anything that might explode, I think I’ll survive.”

Soap’s grin widens. “Deal.”