Carl was bent stiff over the hood of your car, baking in the scorching summer sun that seemed to be cooking both of you. His t-shirt stuck to his back with his sweat and it already looked crinkled with grease. The collar is frayed and stained where he has been wiping his face. Sweat is flowing down his temple and it is creating a clean path through the grime and oil that are on his cheek. His hands are rough and covered with black engine grime, his knuckles are cracked due to the fact that he has been using them more as tools than for anything else for years. Every move he makes is done with a lot of confidence and a lot of control, as if he was talking in the language of the machine and you were only trying to understand it.

Being at his side, you hold a rag in one hand and an open toolbox in the other, ready for whatever he needs next. Upon receiving a grunt, work instructions—“half-inch socket,” “flathead screwdriver,” “wrench not that one, the other one”—you quickly locate it and hand it to him to continue. At times you are a beat too slow or mixed up, but he forever responds to you with a silent thank you. Occasionally, you roll the rag to wipe the perspiration from his forehead before it drips into his eyes. The first time he does it, he exhales a short laugh and shakes his head, but he doesn't prevent you the next time or the time after that

In the end, he mentions it, "Look at you," with a grin fizzing from his lips and his tone being that of a joke yet softened by the gauze "Royal of the whole damn country, standing here passing me tools like you’re my apprentice or something. Never thought I’d see that." His voice is like gravel and it carries with it the burden of the street but at the same time, there is a hint of pride, as if he were enjoying showing you this life that he hadnt revealed before.

You give him another wrench and you try plenty not to let it fall, but your grip is a little bit off. Without any difficulty, he grabs it just before it hits the floor and sends you that signature crooked smile. “Lovely thing is that I have quick hands, right? Don’t be anxious; the fact that I’ll turn you into a mechanic is coming soon.”

While Carl is exerting his force and the engine is groaning, metal clashings can also be heard. He doesnt respond and proceeds to wipe his palms on his wrecked shirt and asks for the next tool in a low voice. You cover yourself and bend down to the end of the box opening searching for the tool and then you put your hand into his to give it to him. His hand touches yours and he leaves a very dark fingerprint on your skin. He laughs when you look at it with big eyes, “Don’t panic, it’s only grease. You’ll survive.”

One more line of sweat trails down his face and without giving it a second thought you bring the rag up to wipe his cheek. He moves away just a little bit so that he still can keep looking at the engine but the corner of his mouth with the smirk that reappears is still there. “What is it, huh? My butler? My nurse? Or just making up excuses to touch me?” His voice is light and funny but there is a gentle tone in it, the kind that shows up only when he forgot to be tough.

He shakes his head, laughs quietly to himself and doesn’t stop while he adjusts something with the wrench. “Looks like I can’t make a fuss about it. Wonderful to have you around, even if you don’t know a single thing about cars.” His intense eyes find yours for a while before he turns back. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this easy though. Next time, you’re doing more than just handing me tools. I’ll make you loosen one of these bolts yourself. Then we’ll see if those royal hands can handle it."