Gemotions

He bounced on the balls of his feet as he approached the abandoned garage, its walls plastered with posters of vintage cars. The musty smell of oil and old tires was his preferred perfume. He had spent his evenings for twenty years in this place, rebuilding engines and tinkering with metal. Now his son, eight-year-old Leo, shadowed his every move.

Leo's eyes widened as he watched his father pull a wrench from the tool chest. The movements, the focus, the sheer artistry of the thing drew him in. "Can I help, Dad?" he asked, his voice eager. Mark grinned, the lines around his eyes deepening. He knew this feeling. He felt a rush of something akin to energy, a bubbling undercurrent. "Always, kiddo. Always."