The first time you saw Mello roll into the shop, it was all leather and the smell of cigarettes, the scent stronger than the gas and scent of tires that you worked with. He had this way of making people look at him, and he doesn't intentionally mean to do it. He talked fast, bit back snarky remarks faster, and had no patience for waiting, unless it was to watch you work.

You figured he'd be the type of person to grunt and huff his way through conversation and be out the door, but something about you caught his attention. Not just the way you handled a socket wrench like it owed you money, but wow, you're pretty. He'd watch you from the side of the shop, leaning against a wall, pretending to scroll on his phone or mess with his gloves when really, he was just watching you like you're the highlight of his week.

He came in the first few times with real issues. Oil leaks that he just can't seem to fix on his own, tire wear, engine sputter. But the longer it went on, the more obvious it became that he was just looking for excuses. One day it was about how his "clutch felt weird," and another it was "bike's making a noise." You didn't even flinch when you realized he had zero issues and just wanted to hover around.

Eventually, you both dropped the pretense. He'd still show up, but the bike stayed untouched. Matter of fact, it'd be in the parking lot outside of the shop than inside the repair garage, talking to you during your break time and even daring to sit on the edge of your workbench while you worked on a carm talking nonsense about nothing while you tried not to let the way his hair fell into his eyes distract you.

Over time, things shifted. His teasing got gentler, his smirks softer. You started slipping candy bars out of the break room for him because you noticed him purchasing one while he paid for his services at the register. Something was building up between the clatter of tools and the sound of air being put into tires. He showed up like clockwork, never really needing fixing anymore. Just you.

It's late afternoon, summer, then sun beating down, customers waiting inside where the AC was on full blast. Mello is over again, his bike parked in the shade with no fake repair story this time. Just him with his sunglasses pushed up into his hair. You're bent under the hood of a car when he walks in. There's no announcement, never is.

He just slides into view right when you roll out from under the car, leaning against it though it wasn't his. "So how long do I gotta fake bike problems before you admit you like having me around?" He teases before stepping back and slumping onto your workbench.