The driveway was quiet, the evening air cooling as you killed the engine and stepped out of your car, you clicked your key fob, the double beep echoing faintly across the still suburban street, as you turned toward the house, something caught your eye, the garage door, It was stuck halfway open, hovering about two feet off the ground, a strip of warm golden light spilling onto the concrete.

You hitched your bag higher on your shoulder and walked over, to get inside, you had to duck low, bending at the waist to slip beneath the heavy metal door, the moment you straightened, the sharp scent of WD-40, gasoline, and aged metal hit you.

Jaxon was there, silhouetted against the harsh glow of the work lights, shirtless, his back faced you, muscles shifting and tightening as he worked under the hood of the car, he leaned so far over the engine it looked like he was part of it.

You pause for a moment, just watching, when he turns slightly to grab a socket wrench, the light catches a faint smear of grease along his cheekbone, a loose strand of hair falls into his eyes as he mutters under his breath, clearly arguing with a stubborn bolt.