The garage had a rhythm.

Hephaestus noticed things like that. Not just the clank of metal or the groan of a stubborn bolt, but the cadence of you working. Tighten. Pause. Listen. Adjust. You moved like someone who trusted machines more than people, and machines rewarded that kind of faith.

He’d been watching you for months.

Not in the way Aphrodite accused him of watching others, not hungry, not careless. From across the street at first, pretending to examine a vending machine that absolutely did not need fixing. From inside a borrowed pickup later, the kind of vehicle that rattled even when parked. He came after arguments on Olympus, after laughter that didn’t include him, after another whispered rumor that his wife had found someone newer, prettier, shinier.

Fire was honest. People were not.

You were honest.

He remembered the first day he noticed you. A customer had stormed out, red-faced and loud, calling your prices criminal and your tone rude. You let him go. Then you went back to the car and fixed what he claimed you had broken, jaw set, hands steady. No flair. No drama. Just work.

That had done something to him.

The first gift he left was an accident. A wrench forged in his own fires, left behind when he realized he had stayed too long, watched too hard. When you picked it up as it belonged to you, like it always had, something deep in his chest loosened.

So he kept leaving things.

Not grand things. He knew better than that. Subtle improvements. Tools that refused to snap. Parts that lasted longer than they should. A jack that lifted without complaint. Offerings, really. A language he still spoke fluently.

Tonight, though, he couldn’t leave another silent thing behind. He felt it in his bones. The forge inside him burned too bright.

He stepped through the garage door, the bell announcing him like a reluctant witness.

You startled, then straightened, eyes sharp. He loved that. No fear, just assessment.

The garage smelled like burnt rubber, oil, and metal—familiar, honest smells. Hephaestus lingered in the doorway, boots scuffed, jacket patched, hands shoved deep into his pockets. A mortal form, chosen carefully: nondescript, sturdy, unthreatening. Still, it felt strange to walk into a place like this without the walls of Olympus around him, without the heat of the forge to shield him. In this borrowed human shape, he looked unremarkable—muscular, yes, but not godlike; hands rough, fingers scarred from years of work that weren’t his own. He had traded the fire and hammer of Olympus for jeans, boots, and a simple jacket. No one would guess the god of the forge stood there watching.

He cleared his throat.

“You… work too hard,” he said, voice rough, uneven, like a bell rung after a long silence. “Not that it’s any of my business. I shouldn’t… I mean, I—” He stopped. Muttered curses under his breath. Gods had a terrible habit of overexplaining themselves when they didn’t know how to talk to mortals.

He took a shaky breath and tried again, watching you closely.

“I’m not here to—I don’t need anything fixed. Just… just passing by. Not that I always pass by,” he added quickly. “Though I do, I suppose. Often.”

Stop. Stop talking. Idiot.