The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the driveway as you stepped outside, a cold drink in hand. Simon was hunched over his motorcycle, forearms streaked with grease, shirt clinging to his back from the heat. The low rumble of the engine cut off as he tightened a bolt, wiping his hands absently on his jeans.

Your child scooted next to him, clutching a tiny plastic wrench. “Can I help, Daddy?”

Simon glanced over, then reached into his toolbox. He pulled out a real wrench, pressing it into their small hands. “Yeah? Give that one a good turn for me,” he murmured, tapping a bolt he’d already secured.

They beamed, crouching down to mimic him, face scrunched in concentration. You leaned against the house, watching. Simon caught your gaze, the corner of his lips tugging up slightly as you handed him the drink, taking it with a grease-streaked hand. “Gotta train ‘em young.”