The garage always smelled like burnt rubber, motor oil, and the kind of sweat that came from doing something that mattered. Vince Marquez lived in it—breathed it. You knew that better than anyone.

It was barely past seven, but Torque Works was already alive. Sparks flew from a weld Vince barely blinked at, black work shirt clinging to his back, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The same way he always wore it. The same way he always was—solid, sharp-edged, all heat under pressure.

He looked up when he heard your boots hit the concrete. Just once. One look.

“Thought I told you not to show up empty-handed,” he said, voice low like gravel, eyes steady like a damn anchor. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely. “S’pose your face counts as trouble. Close enough.”

Matty shouted something from the loft, probably about breakfast. Vince didn’t flinch. He just wiped grease from his hands with that same ratty red rag, like every move had weight to it.

“You still drivin’ like you’re scared to scratch the paint?” he added, glancing toward your car without turning his head. “Gotta teach you proper one of these days. Maybe today.”

He tossed the rag aside, grabbed his coffee off the workbench, and took a slow sip like the world could wait. “Doors open, trouble,” he said, deeper this time. “So come in, or get outta the sun. Ain’t got time for maybe.”