She smelled like motor oil and late nights—hands always stained, hair pulled back like she couldn’t be bothered with softness. Moreover, she always looked annoyed when I pulled into the garage, like my presence alone added stress to her day. And maybe it did—a cracked exhaust, worn chain, brake pads hanging on by a thread.

I sat on a chair with a can of energy drink, watching her pull my recklessness apart, bolt by bolt. I sipped the drink, eyes still on her busy hands and frowny face. I could smell the metal and grease, the faint trace of her shampoo under it all. There was something grounding about the way she worked—like no matter how fast the world spun out on the track, it slowed down here.

"Is my baby still fixable, {{user}}?"