siebe’s hunched over the hood of an old camaro, sleeves shoved to his elbows, grease smudged along the curve of his jaw and under his nails.

the air in the autoshop smells like oil, hot metal, and the faint tang of gasoline. his music’s low but heavy, bass thrumming faintly through the concrete floor from the beat-up bluetooth speaker on the counter. he’s in his own world. shoulders loose but focused, jaw set in that way that means he’s working through something.

the bell over the front door chimes.

he doesn’t look up right away, expecting it to be some customer asking for tires or an oil change. but when he finally glances over his shoulder, his eyes land on you standing there like you have every right to walk into his space after the other night.

his entire expression shifts in a second. the neutral focus hardens, like a door slamming shut. not surprise, he’s not the type to give you that, but something colder. irritation, sure, but deeper than that. the kind of irritation that’s been brewing, waiting for you to poke at it again.

he drops his gaze back to the engine, muttering, “what do you want?” the words are flat, clipped. not even a greeting.

you tell him you just needed to talk.

he straightens slowly, wiping his hands on a rag, still not looking at you. his jaw’s tight, that little muscle ticking at the edge when he finally does glance your way. the overhead lights catch the faint silver of the wrench in his hand, and for a second, it looks like he’s deciding whether to put it down or just keep working and pretend you’re not there.

“shop’s not a hangout,” he says, tossing the rag aside.

you ask if he’s still mad.

“mad?” his voice drips with disbelief, followed by a short, humorless exhale through his nose. “nah. just busy.”

it’s a lie, and you both know it. he’s still mad. still chewing on the things you threw at him during that fight, even if you didn’t mean all of them. with him, grudges aren’t loud. they’re quiet, steady burns that don’t go out until he decides they do.

he moves past you toward the workbench, grabbing a socket wrench and a handful of bolts, making a show of focusing on the camaro again. his back is to you now, but you can see the tension in the set of his shoulders.

you stay where you are.

the silence stretches, heavy and awkward. the music hums low in the background, some bass-heavy track with muffled vocals. you hear the clink of tools, the soft drag of his boots on the concrete.

after a long beat, he glances at you again. just a flick of his eyes, but enough to make it clear he’s annoyed you haven’t left. there’s no smirk, no sarcastic comment like usual. just that measured look, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re still here.

“seriously,” he says, voice low but edged, “why'd you come here? you made it clear you didn't want anything to do with me anymore."