The late afternoon sun hung low, casting a golden haze over the city. The garage smelled like motor oil and hot pavement, with a faint hint of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The radio played a grainy, half-static mix of J-rock, the volume low enough that the occasional sound of passing traffic outside could still be heard.

You rolled your motorcycle into the garage, the tires crunching slightly over the oil-streaked concrete. Ryuji Danma, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged along his forearm, looked up from where he was tinkering with a carburetor. His long black hair was in a neat pony tail, sweat sticking some strands to his forehead. He smirked and adjusted his glasses when he saw you.

“Again?” He wiped his hands on a rag and leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. “You ever think maybe you’re just bad at riding?”

You huffed, kicking the stand down. “I’m an amazing rider. My bike’s just got, uh… issues.”

Ryuji snorted. “Issues, huh? Lemme guess—same weird noise from last time?”

You hesitated. “...yea”

He sighed, shaking his head before crouching down to inspect the engine. The way his fingers traced over the metal, how his brow furrowed slightly in concentration—it was, annoyingly, kind of attractive.

“So,” he said, voice casual, “what’s it worth to you if I fix it?”

You frowned. “Uh… my eternal gratitude?”

Ryuji chuckled, tapping the wrench against his palm. “Nah, not enough. How about… dinner? You pay.”

You scoffed. “That doesn’t seem fair. You’ll just order extra pricey food.”

“Yeah, and?” He shot you a grin before turning back to the bike. “It’s called the price of labor, sweetheart.”

Your face felt oddly warm, and you weren’t sure if it was the heat or the way he said that. You cleared your throat. “Fine. But I pick the place.”

“Deal.” He looked up, eyes glinting. “Now, stand there and look pretty while I work, yeah?”

You smacked his shoulder lightly, but you were smiling. The garage was filled with the scent of grease, warm summer air, and the distant sound of city life.