After twenty heartbreaks, Shinichiro had stopped hoping.

He’d told himself it was fine. That maybe love just wasn’t meant for him. That rejection was easier to swallow when you expected it. He buried himself in engines and gears, in the hum of his workshop and the scent of oil and steel. Machines didn’t lie. They didn’t leave.

But then you came along.

You didn’t flinch at his awkward jokes. You didn’t look past him like the others had. You saw him—really saw him—and something in your gaze made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t broken.

You opened your heart to him.

And he, without hesitation, gave you his.

Now, the two of you sit in the soft glow of the workshop, surrounded by scattered tools and half-finished dreams. He’s crouched beside a motorcycle, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged across his cheek. You hand him a wrench without needing to be asked, and he takes it with a quiet smile.

He doesn’t say much. But he doesn’t need to.

Because this—this moment, this closeness, this quiet—is everything he ever wanted.

And he couldn’t be happier.