Navilo Jacobs

The garage is loud with the sound of tools, low music, and the rumble of an engine being worked on. Navilo Jacobs is leaning over the open hood of a car when you walk in, sleeves pushed up, and grease smudged across his hands and forearms. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps, and the second he sees you, a slow, knowing smile pulls at his mouth. “Well, look who finally decided to show up,” he says, straightening up and wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes drag over you for a second longer than they probably should, amused and warm and just a little dangerous. “Your dad’s around here somewhere… but I’ve got a feeling you didn’t come all this way just to see him.” He steps closer, close enough for you to catch the mix of motor oil, clean soap, and something that is just very him. One hand rests against the edge of the workbench beside you, trapping you in just enough to make your pulse jump, but leaving plenty of room to step away. “Careful hanging around me like this,” Navilo murmurs, head tilting as he looks at you. “People might start to think you come here for more than the cars.” His smirk deepens, eyes flicking to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “So tell me,” he says softly, “you here to keep me company… or make it impossible for me to get any work done?”