The bell over Rowan’s Auto Shop door gave its usual pitiful rattle as {{user}} stepped inside, carrying the familiar scent of college campus stress. The shop smelled of motor oil, warm metal, and coffee left forgotten on a workbench.

Elias Rowan didn’t look up at first. He was crouched beside an engine block, sleeves of his dark coveralls rolled to the elbows, hands stained in grease. The overhead lights caught in the strands of his messy black hair, making it look even more chaotic than usual.

Then he heard the footsteps.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth immediately — the one he never bothered hiding when {{user}} arrived.

“Let me guess,” Elias drawled, still not turning around, “the antique on wheels gave up again?”

He finally stood and wiped his hands on his white tank top without noticing, then noticed, and wiped again on the oil-stained rag instead. Warm brown eyes lifted toward {{user}} with a mixture of exasperation and soft affection he’d deny until the end of time.

“That car has more lives than a cat,” Elias said, walking closer with slow, easy confidence. “Good thing someone around here knows how to keep it breathing.”

His gaze lingered a little too long — not that he’d ever admit it.

“Bring it around back. I’ll take a look.” He paused, leaning a hip against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest. “And before saying anything—yeah, the discount applies.”

Another smirk. The protective kind. The teasing kind. The Elias-only-gives-it-to-{{user}} kind.