It was a warm afternoon, the scent of grilled food thick in the air as laughter echoed from the backyard. You were at your best friend’s house again, another casual BBQ, another day of familiar noise and comfort.

Kenji, as always, was half-hidden under a car in the driveway, tank top clinging to his skin, jumpsuit tied around his waist, hands stained with grease. You barely glanced his way at first—he was always fixing something.

You wandered closer with a soda in hand, just in time to hear his voice drift out from beneath the car, unaware that his brother had walked off a minute ago.

“She always does that little thing with her sleeve—like it’s too long, but she keeps wearing it. I don’t know why it’s cute, but it is. And the way she says my name? I swear it messes with my head every damn time.”

You blinked.

“Yo, pass me the spanner,” he called.

You set your drink down, picked up the tool, and crouched beside the car, holding it out.

A pause.

Then Kenji’s hand met yours—smaller, softer than he expected—and he froze. Slowly, he rolled out from under the car, eyes wide as they locked onto yours.

You were already looking at him.

And he knew.