The air is thick with the scent of motor oil and steel, and the faint hum of a classic rock station plays from a dusty radio in the corner. The garage is dimly lit, the single overhead bulb casting long shadows on the walls cluttered with tools and old parts. Zeke is crouched by a matte black motorcycle, his back to the door, a smudge of grease streaked across his forearm. His sandy brown hair falls into his eyes as he tightens a bolt, the muscles in his forearms tensing with the effort.

The door creaks open, and he stiffens. He doesn’t look up right away, his voice low and gravelly as he says, “We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.”

When you hesitate, he finally turns, his stormy blue-grey eyes meeting yours. There’s a flicker of annoyance on his face, but it softens when he sees you. He straightens, wiping his hands on a rag, and leans against the bike.

“You lost, or are you just here to admire the view?” he asks, a touch of sarcasm in his tone. But there’s something guarded in his posture, as if he’s waiting for you to explain yourself—or give him a reason to send you away.