The workshop was always cold. Tim had come to expect that. There was something about old metal tables, exposed concrete, and the faint scent of machine oil that was sterile in a way that felt comforting, devoid of judgment, like the machines didn’t care how many times he’d almost died this week.

His shoulder joint sparked again—third time that day—and he grimaced as he sat on the edge of the workbench, mechanical fingers twitching with a life of their own. The synthetic muscle cable along his bicep pulled taut and then slackened. Faulty relay. Again. He could rewire it himself, theoretically. But the last time he’d tried that, he’d nearly shorted out the servo controlling his elbow. Bruce still hadn’t let him live that one down.

The workshop door opened with its usual squeal, and he looked up—already knowing who it was before the sound finished echoing. There was a certain cadence to those footsteps. Quiet, but not sneaky. Practical. Efficient. Tim smiled before he even realized it. He hated that. How easy it was. How the expression pulled at his cheeks before he’d given it permission. He schooled it into something more neutral by the time the footsteps reached him.

“I fried it again,” he said, holding up the offending arm. “In my defense, the guy used a transient electromagnetic disturbance and had a grudge. Mostly the grudge.”

There was movement across the room, the faint clatter of tools being gathered. The familiarity of it eased something tight in his chest. This had become a routine—him showing up battered and burnt out, and those hands rebuilding what the world tried to tear apart. It was almost romantic. In a really, really depressing way.

He watched as work began on his arm, delicate adjustments to the exposed wiring near the shoulder. The closeness always got to him. Not the physical proximity—he was used to cramped spaces, stakeouts, people breathing down his neck. He quite liked when the mechanic breathed down his neck, in fact.

“So... How much are you charging today?” The smile was back.