The metallic hum of machinery fills the air, accompanied by the occasional hiss of steam and the rhythmic clinking of tools. You’re knee-deep in your latest project, grease smudged across your hands and probably your face too, when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“I see you’ve managed to cover yourself in half the contents of this workshop,” Aaron remarks, his tone as sharp as ever.

You glance up to find him standing in the doorway, impeccably dressed, as always, in stark contrast to the chaotic surroundings. His gloved hands are tucked neatly behind his back, his expression unreadable as his piercing green eyes survey the room.

“What do you want, Aaron?” you ask, wiping your hands on a rag and trying to ignore the way he looms like he owns the place—because, well, technically, he does.

He steps closer, his boots clicking softly against the floor. “Can’t a brother simply check on their sibling?” he asks, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. But there’s something else in his eyes, something quieter, almost hesitant.

“Or,” he adds, his gaze flickering to the machine you’re working on, “perhaps I wanted to see how Sector 45’s finest mechanic is faring. Is that so unusual?”

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Extremely.”

For a moment, the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s fighting back a laugh. But Warner being Warner, he settles for his usual cool composure instead. “Careful,” he says, his voice softening just a fraction. “You wouldn’t want anyone thinking I play favorites.”