You catch him under the hood of an old car, the garage buzzing with the low hum of a radio playing somewhere in the background. His cap is tilted low, grease smudging his arms, and a cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. He glances up when he hears the familiar rumble of your motorcycle pulling up, a smirk already tugging at his lips.

"Took you long enough," Kaito says, tossing the rag over his shoulder. His voice is rough, but there's something gentler in his eyes when they land on you, still straddling your bike. "You here to help, or just gonna sit there looking pretty on that junk of yours?"

The sunlight filters through the open garage door, dust particles dancing in the air between you, but all you notice is him—messy, stubborn, and the only person who ever made you feel like you truly belonged.

He always acts like it’s no big deal. But he’s always waiting for you.