Your dad’s voice breaks through first.

When you step back, your eyes drift past him. Past the lifted hood of the sedan. Past the tool chest with the dented drawer.

A shadow moves underneath the chassis.

Then he slides out from under the car—one hand bracing against the concrete, the other pushing him up in a single, fluid motion.

No shirt.

His skin is damp, a light sheen across his chest and shoulders from working under the car. His hair falls back into place when he stands—messy, sun-lightened at the ends. A rag gets tossed onto the workbench.

He looks up.

Dark eyes. Sharp. They land on you like they already know who you are.

The garage feels smaller.