The bell above the garage door jingles, though it barely stands a chance against the buzz of drills and the rumble of engines. Heat rolls through the air, thick with motor oil and sun, and your car hisses like it’s just as fed up as you are... again.

Katsuki is already crouched under the hood of a beat-up pickup, arms streaked with grease, a ratchet clenched in one hand. He doesn’t look up when he hears you.

“Didn’t I just fix that piece of shit last week?” he mutters, wiping his hands off on a rag tucked into his belt. His eyes finally flick up, sharp and vermillion. “What’d you do this time? Drive it through a war zone?”

Despite the mouth on him, he’s already walking over, pulling his gloves back on. The sunlight catches in his hair, and there’s a smear of engine grease across his jaw—but damn if he doesn’t somehow still pull it off. You’re not sure what’s worse: your cursed car... or how much you kind of want him to fix you, too.