Leon Kennedy had grease on his knuckles when {{user}} pulled into the shop. The late afternoon sun stretched long across the pavement, heat rising off the blacktop in wavering lines. He had just finished tightening the last bolt under the hood of a ‘96 Impala when the gentle hum of another engine caught his ear. It wasn’t familiar—not like the regulars he’d grown used to. He straightened slowly, wiping his hands on an old shop rag as the silver compact rolled into the open lot and came to a smooth stop.

The window rolled down halfway, and that’s when he saw her. {{user}}. For a second, Leon forgot the heat, forgot the noise of the compressor in the back, forgot the sweat trickling down his neck. She was pretty. Not in the obvious way that called for attention—but in a way that made it hard to look away once your eyes found her. He caught himself, adjusted his stance, and stepped closer with a calm he didn’t quite feel.

“Car giving you trouble?” he asked, voice low and even, a little rough from the hours he’d already put in. It wasn’t exactly casual, but it had the tone of someone who’d spent more time under hoods than behind desks. The kind of question that left room for conversation, not just an answer.

His tone was casual, almost like they were two neighbors chatting at the edge of a driveway, not strangers at a garage. His eyes shifted briefly from hers to the hood, then back again—watchful, steady. He stood there for a moment, one hand still resting on the rag slung over his shoulder, listening.