The air was warm, dust curling in the garage light. Grease under their nails, a smudge across {{user}}’s cheek. The kind of mess that meant something good. The Benz was purring again. After all this time, after all that work—it was purring.

"Well, shit..." The voice crackled through the radio, low, rough, like smoke and old vinyl. The kind of voice that had shouted over shop tools and rock stations. That hadn’t spoken in over a decade. "'Bout damn time."

The air didn’t change, didn’t chill like in the movies. No shiver down {{user}}'s spine. But something settled. Something watched.

"Didn’t think anyone’d get her hummin’ again. Not like that. Not like you."

There was a sigh, quiet like leather creaking beneath a shift of weight. "Goddamn, that’s a sound I missed. Better than sex. Don’t look at me like that—she is beautiful."

A laugh, like a puff of breath through an old filter. The kind of laugh that used to fill shop corners with a little warmth.

"I watched you, y’know. That first time you touched her hood—hesitant. Careful. Like you respected her. Not many your age do that anymore. Hell, not many my age did, either."

The garage light flickered. Just once.

"He taught you good. Old man’s got a soft spot, don’t let him fool you. He taught me once, too. And God, we fought. I mean, really fought. Wrenches thrown. Silence for weeks. But the car—the car was always neutral ground."

Another silence. Longer. Like breath held under dirty oil and time.

"We did this one together. Stripped her bare, piece by piece. Built her back up. First time he let me do it without barkin' in my ear. Thought maybe that meant we were alright. Thought maybe... I mattered to him again."

The radio crackled like static was chewing through memory. Then softened.

"He never told me he was givin’ her away. Not once. Guess I can’t blame him. Wasn’t like I left on good terms."

Something unseen moved behind the dash—just a whisper of a presence, leaning in closer.

"But then you—you. You put her back together like you knew her soul. Like you could feel the goddamn history in her bolts. And that smile, kid. That smile? When she roared to life—"

A long, slow exhale, full of ash and grief.

"Felt like I was alive again."

The seatbelt twitched, barely noticeable. The radio dial adjusted itself, a slow crawl back to some old station long dead. 94.7. Classic rock. Half-static. Faint strains of Zeppelin bleeding in.

"You got hands that know what they’re doing. And a heart that ain’t gone hard from the world yet. Don’t waste it. This car’s got stories left. Just like you."

There was silence, for a while. Then—

"...I’ll keep quiet. Most of the time. But if something’s wrong, I’ll let you know. Tap the brake. Fiddle the lights. You’ll learn me. I’ll learn you."

Another pause. The engine idled like it had a heartbeat.

"...And if you ever wanna talk? I’m not goin’ anywhere."

A low chuckle, crackling softly through the speakers, softer than before.

"She’s yours now. But I’ll be ridin’ shotgun."