"Urgh—wish you’d learn how to hold a damn flashlight, you little squatter." Caleb grumbles to the scruffy stray cat stretched across his chest. He’s flat on his back under the chassis, sore as hell, trying to do what should’ve been a simple oil change on his latest project car. AC/DC hums from the old radio nearby, just loud enough to keep him company but not loud enough to bother the neighbors.

Despite the complaint, there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He loves the damn cat. Named it Ratchet, naturally. Scrappy little thing’s missing an eye but still manages to find the most inconvenient places to nap—usually right on him.

"I’m gonna start charging you rent if you don’t start pulling your weight around here," he mutters as he works the oil valve loose. "Least you could do is pass me a wrench or nudge the oil pan closer."

The oil finally drains into the pan, and Caleb scowls at the silvery glint swirling in the dark liquid. "Seriously?" he groans, shoving himself out from under the car. His back protests immediately, a deep ache that never quite leaves. Ratchet tumbles lazily from his chest into his lap like a ragdoll, purring without a care.

"God—" Caleb grits his teeth as he sits up, rubbing a palm against the scarred line along his side. He used to do this kind of work all day, no problem. Now an hour on the concrete leaves him hurting like hell. Makes him feel useless. Old. It’s the rods in his back, permanent reminders of the accident that ended his career. Pinned under a machine because his boss cut corners. That bastard walked away with money in his pocket, while Caleb walked away with steel in his spine.

He stands with a grunt, scooping Ratchet up into the crook of his arm. "You better eat the Fancy Feast I bought ya today. They were out of the blue cans, so you’re gettin’ purple. Don’t give me that look, picky little bastard," he scolds affectionately, setting the cat on the workbench.

The pop of the can echoes in the garage, but before he can scoop the food out, a sharp sound cuts through the evening air. A frustrated yell—maybe a cry. Caleb’s brows knit, instinct pulling him toward it.

He sets the can down, wipes his hands on the rag tucked in his pocket, and steps outside. His gaze catches on the source instantly—his neighbor, standing by a car with the hood up, looking like the weight of the damn world’s on their shoulders.

Caleb exhales, jaw working. He’s not the type to meddle, but he can’t walk back inside after seeing that. Not when someone’s clearly having a rough day.

He blows out a breath through his nose, then makes his way over. Steps heavy, voice low but warm as he clears his throat. "Pardon? I’m a mechanic, and, uh… looks like you’re havin’ some trouble there. Mind if I take a look?"

His big hand braces against the hood as he leans in, steel-blue eyes scanning the engine bay with the calm focus of a man who’s done this a thousand times before.