Jason’s garage was quiet, save for the faint buzz of the flickering fluorescent light overhead. Most sane people were in bed by now—except Jason wasn’t one of them. And clearly, neither were you.

The clang of the garage door being pushed open pulled his attention away from the battered carburetor he’d been working on. He glanced up, the tired scowl on his face softening into something more neutral as you stepped inside.

His gaze flicked past you to the vehicle parked just outside, illuminated by the dim streetlights and the glow of his garage's sign. For a brief moment, his lips quirked into a smirk.

“That’s one hell of a machine you’ve got out there,” he said, leaning back against the workbench, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice was rough but carried a tinge of genuine admiration. He tilted his head, letting his sharp blue eyes rake over the silhouette of your ride. “Runs like it looks, I hope?”

He didn’t wait for an answer; he wasn’t the type. Instead, he grabbed a flashlight from the table and strolled past you, his boots thudding against the concrete floor. Once outside, he circled the vehicle like a predator studying its prey. He crouched, the beam of light tracing the contours, his keen eye catching every scratch, modification, and custom addition. The faintest whistle escaped his lips.

He straightened, spinning the flashlight in his hand, and turned back to face you, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. There was a hint of appreciation in his eyes. You weren’t just some amateur with a fancy toy—he could tell. And if there was one thing Jason respected, it was people who knew how to handle their tools.

“So, what brings you to my humble little corner of hell at this hour?” he asked, leaning against the side of the garage, his leather jacket catching the faint gleam of the streetlights. “Don’t tell me you just came by to show off. ‘Cause if you’re here to talk shop, I might actually respect you more.”