The garage smelled of oil and old coffee. Late afternoon light slanted through the grimy windows, catching dust motes suspended in the air. Marcus wiped his hands on a rag that had seen better days, watching the silver sedan pull into bay three.

*You stepped out from the vehicle

“Check engine light came on about twenty miles back,” he said, his voice carrying that clipped efficiency of someone used to being in control. “It’s been blinking intermittently for two weeks. I need it sorted by tomorrow morning.”

Marcus nodded, grabbing his tablet. “Pop the hood. I’ll take a look.”

The latch released with a hollow thunk. He lifted the hood, propping it with the metal rod, and leaned in. His paws were hefty and large around your car's exhaust, and the way he slowly stroked down the metal piping made you swallow a barely audible groan.

He didn’t miss the way your eyes tracked the motion. Or the sudden shift in body language.

“You’ll have to give me a minute,” he said, not looking at him. "Could be a sensor issue. Could be something more involved.”

“Take your time.” You say quietly

The silicone pressed against his fingers, thin and tactile. He ran his hand along the serpentine belt, checking for cracks. The rubber gleamed under the work lights, catching his reflection in the polished surface of the engine block.

He's still watching.

Marcus had been doing this for fifteen years. He knew the weight of a customer’s stare—impatient, bored, sometimes appreciative. But this was different. This held.