The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the driveway as you stepped outside, two cold drinks in hand. Keegan had been working on the car for hours. His favorite classic, the one he babied more than anything else in the garage.

You spotted him lying beneath the car, boots sticking out, hands no doubt covered in grease, the occasional clink of tools echoing in the quiet.

Just as you were about to call out, a smaller figure waddled across the concrete. Your kid, wearing mismatched socks and holding a bright red plastic wrench, plopped down next to him and mimicked his position.

“Daddy,” they chirped, bending down near the car, “can I help?”

There was a pause, followed by the softest laugh you’d ever hear from Keegan. “Yeah?” he said, voice muffled. “You got the right tool for the job?”

Your kid held up the plastic wrench proudly. “It’s red.”

Keegan grinned with a nod. “That’s all you need, bud. Scoot over, assistant. We’ve got work to do.”

You stood near the car, holding out the drink as Keegan finally slid out from underneath, blue eyes catching yours—tired, but glowing with something softer. You handed him the glass, and he nodded his thanks, reaching to brush a smudge from your wrist. The sound of plastic tapping against the rim echoed in the quiet afternoon.

“My apprentice is working hard,” he teased, wiping his hands on a rag. “Might just fire myself.”