The garage smelled of oil, metal, and engine smoke, the familiar scent of your boyfriend’s Riordan world, the rhythmic clang of tools echoed as he worked beneath the hood of a car, sweat glinting on his neck under the dim light.

You lingered at the entrance, watching him. Grease stained, focused, and effortlessly handsome, your heart softened.

“Hey, handsome.” You called.

His head snapped up instantly, the moment he saw you, his entire posture shifted, tension melting from his shoulders, a look of pure surprise lighting his face. “You’re here?”

You smiled, stepping closer. “I missed you.”

He quickly wiped his hands on a rag and stepped away from the car. “You should’ve told me you were coming. It’s a mess in here.”

“I don’t care about that.”

You stopped in front of him and noticed it, a faint purplish mark on his cheek, barely hidden by the grease smudge.

Your smile faltered. “What happened?”

He blinked, looking away quickly. “It’s nothin’ baby. Just hit my head off the car bonnet earlier.”

You frowned. “Don’t lie to me.”

He sighed, tossing the rag aside. “It’s not a big deal, okay?”

“Not a big deal?” Your voice rose slightly. “You have a bruise on your face again. Let me guess, your dad?”

He stayed silent, eyes darting to the floor, that silence said it all.

Your heart tightened painfully. “You told me he was getting better.”

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah… looks like I was wrong.”