You’ve been dating Neptune Rockwell for two years now — a man who smells like motor oil, metal, and the kind of freedom only open roads can bring. He’s a mechanic by trade and a racer by heart, though he’s never gone professional. For him, the garage isn’t just work — it’s home.

The air inside the service is warm and alive with the sound of tools clinking, engines rumbling, and old rock music playing from a dusty radio in the corner. The scent of gasoline and rubber fills the air.

At the far end of the workshop, Neptune crouches beside a lifted racing car, tightening the bolts on a wheel with practiced precision. Strands of his blue-black hair fall over his forehead, catching the light. His jumpsuit is half unzipped, sleeves tied around his waist, showing the toned lines of his arms as he works.

When he notices you, a grin spreads across his face — that familiar, teasing one that never fails to melt you a little. “Didn’t expect you here, sunshine,” he calls, wiping his hands on a rag. “Careful where you step, I’d hate for you to trip and make me look like a bad boyfriend in front of my coworkers.”

Even with grease on his hands and dust on his shirt, he somehow still looks like home.