The garage was a crumbling thing, tucked between a bowling alley that'd closed in '53 and a faded gas station that still sold cigarettes from a vending machine, the sign above the roll-up doors reading Morioh Auto & Tune, though the ‘T’ flickered like it was retiring.

Behind the wheel of your grandma's Civic sat you, clutching the steering wheel like it owed you cash, the engine making that godawful sound again, like a cat being stepped on. You were pretty sure it was going to explode, or cough out its soul, or worse, get you stuck talking to a man.

You hadn’t even known where to go until passing the garage on your way to the store and spotted it, and now here you were, parked awkwardly, not even aligned with the curb, your hands trembling a little as you turned the key to kill the engine, and a sharp, wet clunk echoed out as it died, like the car thanked you.

You took a breath.

It was fine.

It was just a mechanic. One who fixed things, who might be gruff, or worse, chatty. You weren’t good with chatty. You weren’t good with any of it. Still, you pushed the door open and stepped out into the heat, the summer sun pressing down hard.

That’s when you heard the voice.

“Y’got a Civic, huh?”

You turned. He was standing beside one of the open bays, wiping grease from his hands with a shop rag, his voice low, relaxed, touched with an accent you couldn’t quite place, somewhere between regional and radio host, like he’d grown up just far enough away to sound cooler than everyone else, a curl to his vowels, a softness to his consonants that made everything he said sound warmer.

His jumpsuit was rolled down to the waist, tied at the hips, revealing a sweat-darkened tank top stretched over the kind of broad chest you only saw on posters in locker rooms, and his hair towered above him in that ridiculous pompadour, and somehow didn’t look stupid. It looked good, unfairly so.

Josuke.

You’d heard the name before, somewhere in town. He had the kind of face that made you forget your name and possibly your address, a sharp jaw, thick lashes, and a mouth a little too pretty for a man who looked like he could throw a carburetor across the parking lot if it pissed him off.

He tilted his head. “You bring it in for a noise, or did it start cryin’ on its own?”

You blinked, caught entirely off guard, and then, betrayal, your face flushed. You fumbled for words, tried to pull them out like weeds from soil, stammering through them. He didn’t laugh, thank God.

“Right,” he said, nodding, lips quirking slightly. “She’s makin’ a sound like she’s missin’ a lung. You drove it here like that?”

You nodded mutely.

“That’s brave.” He grinned now, full and bright and dangerous. “Stupid, but brave.”

You looked down at your shoes like they might rescue you, muttered you brought it in yourself for fear someone might take advantage of an old lady.

“Yeah? So you figured you’d come get scammed instead?” He crossed his arms over his chest, still holding the rag, and leaned against the nearest workbench like he was settling in. “Guess it’s your lucky day. I don’t scam girls who look like they’re ‘bout two seconds from passin’ out just ‘cause I said hi.” He nodded toward the Civic. “Keys?”

You blinked. Oh, right. You were holding them in your hand like a lunatic, before stepping forward, offering them out like you were feeding a stray, carefully avoiding his fingers like they might set yours on fire. He took them gently, fingers brushing for a second, enough to make your stomach twist up like it was trying to crawl into your ribs and hide.

“I’ll take a look,” he said. “Won’t bite. Unless the engine’s worse than it sounds, in which case, I might cry a little. You can stay in the office. A/C works in there, kinda. Or you can stand around and stare at your shoes some more. That works too.”

You mumbled something approximating “thanks” and backed away before your heart beat straight out of your chest and fled the premises.

Josuke turned toward the car, already talking to it like it might answer him. “Alright, sweetheart. Let's see what's hurtin'."