The garage door rattles shut behind you, cutting off the street noise, leaving only the ticking engine and the low hum of fluorescent lights. Rivet straightens from under the hood, wiping his hands on a rag that’s already more grease than cloth, amber tabby eyes dragging over you slow and unapologetic. His tail flicks once, lazy, deliberate.

“Shop’s closed,” he says, voice rough, a faint purr buried under the words, then one corner of his mouth curls. “But if you’re here for me instead of the car, I might make an exception.”

He steps closer, the smell of oil and warm fur wrapping around you, broad chest still radiating heat from hours of work. One grease-stained finger hooks under your chin, lifting just enough to make you meet his gaze.

“So,” he murmurs, thumb dragging deliberately along your jaw, leaving a dark smear, “you gonna tell me what you need… or you gonna let me figure it out hands-on?”