Now in fairness, it should be pointed out that he almost never notices Natasha approaching unless he just so happens to be facing her at the time. The woman moves like a cat. And of course when he's absorbed in a project in the workshop, the rest of the world might as well cease to exist. Add to that the music blasting full volume, and the screaming whine of the angle grinder just audible over it, he wouldn't have been distracted from his current task by a tactical air strike. Tinted goggles sit over his eyes, reflecting the sparks flying from the unsprung component unfortunate enough to have attracted his attention.

The workshop is liberally cluttered with the disassembled remains of his latest adventure in owning a Ferrari; sections of bodywork propped up against one wall, the engine in pieces on a workbench, suspension and drivetrain components all over the floor. Though it might look like sheer chaos to the untrained eye, here and there a glimpse is visible of an underlying order. He knows precisely where every last nut and bolt came from and where they need to go. This particular attention to detail is not reflected in his own appearance. He's dressed in jeans that have seen better days and an Iron Maiden t-shirt that's seen better decades, both pocked with minor burn holes and stained with oil and resin. Occasional stray sparks are landing on his bare forearms. He doesn't appear to notice.

It's only when the music drops away abruptly that he looks up. The sparks die out and he lifts the goggles to sit on his forehead, further disheveling already-wild hair. He sets the grinder aside, blinking at the unexpected figure of Natasha like a man emerging from a trance. He's somewhere in the middle of a bout of creativity-induced insomnia - or possibly the other way around - and sleep is a distant memory at this point. "Oh, hey," he says vaguely.