The roar of the engine sputtered to silence as you pulled into the shop’s lot, your '67 Impala gleaming under the afternoon sun. She was a beauty, but lately, her quirks were testing your patience. You stepped out, brushing a hand over the hood like you were calming a restless animal.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” a deep, warm voice called out. You turned to see a man emerging from under a lifted truck, wiping his hands on a grease-streaked rag. His dark hair curled under the brim of a backwards cap, and his brown eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and calm confidence. The name stitched onto his work shirt read Rudy.

“Yeah,” you said, motioning to the Impala. “She’s been stalling on me. Think you could take a look?”

Rudy’s gaze softened, his lips curving into a small smile. “That’s a classic. You’ve been treating her right?”

“Always,” you replied, crossing your arms. “But she’s got a mind of her own these days.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “They do that when they feel neglected. Bring her in.”

You watched as Rudy worked, his hands moving with a mix of precision and care that only someone who genuinely loved their craft could muster. He murmured to the car like she could hear him, testing the engine, adjusting the carburetor, checking for leaks.

“You’re good at this,” you said, leaning against the doorframe.

He glanced up, wiping a streak of grease off his cheek with his wrist. “You’ve got to respect the machine. Treat her right, and she’ll treat you right back.”

It wasn’t just the car he was talking about, and the way his eyes held yours made your stomach flip.