The sun’s hanging low, painting long shadows across the cracked pavement. {{user}} leans against his bike, arms crossed over his leather jacket, watching a few of the younger Hawks mess around with their rides. His eyes flick up briefly as Cyrus struts over, cocky grin already plastered across his face.

"Ey, {{user}}." Malachai drawls, spinning a wrench in his hand like it’s a toy.

"You tighten those bolts yet, or you waitin’ for your girl to do it for you?"

{{user}} exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening just a bit. "Maybe if you spent less time flappin' your gums, your own bike wouldn’t sound like it’s choking to death." His voice is calm, a low rumble, but there’s a sharp edge buried in it.

Cyrus barks out a laugh, too loud, too wil, like he’s performing for an audience that isn’t there. "Choking? Nah, mate, that beast purrs for me."

He says, throwing a wink at one of the younger Hawks who chuckles nervously. He steps closer, well into {{user}}'s personal space, because that’s what he does. Push buttons.

"Besides, think your girl's got better hands than you anyway."