The garage smelled like oil, heat, and something faintly metallic that never quite left your lungs once you breathed it in.

Mateo had gotten used to it years ago.

The radio crackled low in the corner, some old Spanish song humming through worn speakers as he leaned over the engine, sleeves pushed up, hands deep in something that refused to cooperate. The metal was still warm under his fingers, stubborn like everything else lately.

“Come on…” he muttered, tightening the wrench with a sharp twist. The bolt gave. “Yeah,” he breathed, more to himself than anything.

The bell above the garage door rang. Mateo didn’t look up right away. “We’re closed,” he called, voice even, already turning back to the engine.

No response.

He frowned slightly, wiping his hands on a rag before straightening up. When he turned, he paused.