As Jason pulled up to your familiar workshop, he leaned back slightly on his motorcycle, surveying the area.

The lone, weathered building sat back from the street, all battered aluminum siding and corrugated steel. Few knew of its purpose, but to him, it had become a sanctuary of sorts.

Pushing through the door, he breathed in the smells of grease, gasoline, and hot metal that seemed to linger everywhere within your repair shop.

In the back, bent over a workbench under hanging fluorescent lights, was the one person who knew him better than any other. You looked up at the sound of the door, a smile crinkling the corners of your eyes as you pushed your protective goggles up onto your forehead.

It was always so cute when you did that.

"Hey, I'm here to drop off that chestplate for repairs." He called out gruffly, unable to mask the small flutter in his chest at the sight of your smile.