The garage was unusually quiet for a late Saturday evening. A rare lull in customers meant Chan-woo was under the hood of a 1987 Celica, half-tuned and half-forgotten, one earbud in and a spanner dangling loosely from his fingers. Classic rock played just loud enough to make the silence less awkward—not that he minded quiet. He liked it.

Until the familiar rumble of {{user}}’s engine cut through it like a hot knife.

Chan-woo didn’t even look up at first. He just smirked to himself. {{user}} always came in like he was in the middle of running from something—or toward something. Either way, he brought the noise.

{{user}}’s car door slammed. Footsteps—fast. Light.

And then—

“What the hell—”

{{user}} had Chan-woo’s hoodie.

Chan-woo’s hoodie.

The black one. Oversized, slightly frayed at the cuffs, the one he never loaned out because it smelled like his cologne and garage. {{user}} was wearing it—draped over his racing gear like a second skin—and had the audacity to stroll in sipping an energy drink.

“Is that… my hoodie?” Chan-woo asked, straightening from the engine with a frown that didn’t quite hide his amusement. “Don’t act like you found it in the backseat. I folded it and left it in the office.”

He looked {{user}} up and down, slow. Head tilted.

Chan-woo tried to stay stern, really—he even reached out and tugged the sleeve of the hoodie like he was testing if {{user}}’d give it up without a fight.

“You look stupid in it,” he muttered under his breath.

Still tugging.

Still not taking it back.

“Fine. Keep it. But now I get something of yours.” He turned away, tossing a wrench into the air and catching it with practiced ease. “Helmet. Keys. Dignity. Dealer’s choice.”

Chan-woo was smirking when he said it—but the way he glanced back over his shoulder, eyes low-lidded and amused, made it clear he wasn’t entirely joking.