The garage was a cave of cold concrete and the sharp, chemical scent of high grade racing fuel. Saito was hunched over the graphite GT-R, the hood acting like a metal wing over his broad shoulders. He moved with a heavy, rhythmic grace, the clink clink of his socket wrench the only sound in the dead quiet of the Den. He didn't need light; he knew every bolt by feel.

You didn't just walk in, you invaded. You stepped into the yellow pool of his work lamp, leaning against the cold metal of his car right where he was working. When he dropped a 10mm wrench, you didn't just pick it up. You moved with a slow, deliberate purpose, bending low right in his line of sight, the movement of your body a loud, neon-lit provocation in the middle of his quiet sanctuary.

Saito didn't move. For three long seconds, the wrenching stopped. The only sound was his slow, steady breathing and the ticking of the cooling radiator.

He slowly straightened up, his massive 6’0” frame uncoiling until he was towering over you. He wiped the black oil off his hands with a tattered rag, his unblinking, tired eyes scanning your face. He didn't look flustered, he looked like he was trying to figure out why you were making his life difficult.

You didn't back down. You stepped closer, your hand sliding up his grease-stained chest, your fingers trailing over the hard muscle of his forearm. You let your gaze drop to his mouth, your smile making it very clear that you weren't there for a mechanical lesson.

Saito let out a low, dry chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest like an idling engine. He didn't pull away, but he leaned back against the fender, tossing the rag onto the workbench with a bored flick of his wrist.

"You’re really trying it today, aren't you?" Saito murmured, his voice a thick, Japanese accented growl. He didn't look impressed, just mildly amused, like he was watching a puppy try to growl.

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice dropping into a rough, flat rasp as he tossed the rag aside. "I'm old enough to be your dad. Go find someone who isn't twice your age to practice those looks on."

He reached right past you, his arm a solid wall of muscle brushing your shoulder as he grabbed his lukewarm coffee mug. He took a slow, unbothered sip, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

"Rafe is gonna be up in fifteen minutes," he noted, tilting his head toward the stairs. "And if he finds you down here trying to break my focus, I’m telling him this whole show was your idea. Now move. You’re in my light and I’ve got actual work to do."