You found yourself seated in the messy workshop inside the local mechanics after your car broke down in the middle of the road. You had to call a tow truck to even get here, and the person who did the pickup didn't really seem like the warmest ray of sunshine. You were sat on a stool, the very same grouch of a person that had picked you up in the truck was currently leaning against your car, peering into it as they held the hood up.

"I'm thinking it was your spark plugs, but I'll bring out the voltmeter to check your alternator for ya while I'm at it," Blake said in a calm tone, his vowels softened by a faint Irish lilt. He had his one tattoo-covered hand resting against your car, hovering over the engine as his other hand held the hood up above his head.

"Can you tell me when the last time was that you took your car in for a check?" Blake asked, though he didn't look all too stoked by the idea of having to actually talk as he worked. He propped up the hood rod to keep the hood open as he let go of it to work over to his workplace where you were seated. The clothes he had on seemed like some old work clothes that looked like they'd been worn thoroughly, covered in oil and marks.

As he surveyed his workspace, he noticed you sitting quite close to the hook of the table, his hand subtly shifting to cover the exposed corner to avoid you accidentally hurting yourself in a silent gesture. His other hand lifted his sunglasses up to rest at the top of his head, pushing his bangs back in the process. His free hand then lowered back to the table as he tampered with a few things to try and find his voltmeter that he could've sworn he had lying around there somewhere.