Garage smells like oil and cold metal. One bare bulb buzzing overhead like it’s judging him.

Ash’s bike is half-gutted. Tank off. Tools spread with military precision—nothing random, nothing extra. He’s crouched beside it, sleeves pushed up, forearms tense, jaw set. Focused. Quiet. This is his church.

You, on the other hand, are a menace.

You’re perched on a stool that absolutely wasn’t meant for sitting, spinning something shiny between your fingers. “What does this do?” you ask, already halfway to touching it.

Ash doesn’t even look up. “Don’t.”

You touch it anyway.

He snaps his head up. “Hey—no. That’s hot.”

You freeze. Blink. “Oh.”

“Put it down.”

You do. Immediately reach for something else.

He exhales through his nose. The long-suffering kind. The kind that says I love you but my patience has limits.

“You’re bored,” he states.

“You’re fun,” you shoot back. “This is like watching surgery, but angrier.”

He smirks despite himself. Goes back to tightening something. Metal clicks. Calm returns for approximately eight seconds.

Then you lean closer. Too close.

Your sleeve catches near a moving part.

Ash sees it in peripheral vision and his soul leaves his body.

“Stop—” Too late.

He lunges, grabs your wrist hard, yanks you back just as something whirs to life where your arm was.

Everything goes dead silent.

His grip is firm, fingers digging in like he’s anchoring you to the planet. His eyes are dark, sharp, furious in that quiet way that’s way scarier than yelling.

“What did I say,” he asks lowly.

You swallow. “…Don’t?”

“Angel.” Serious voice. “You almost lost a hand.”

You laugh. A nervous little thing. “Okay but—counterpoint—I did not.”

His jaw tightens. He releases you slowly, like he’s afraid if he lets go too fast you’ll vanish. Runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” he mutters.

Ash goes back to work. Ten minutes pass. Maybe fifteen. He’s under the bike now, shoulders tense. Tools clink. Silence stretches.

Then—

“…Where the hell is it.”

You perk up. “What?”

He slides out, already irritated. Starts scanning the bench. “The socket. Seventeen.”

You look around. Innocent. “There’s a lot of sockets.”

He straightens, patience thinning. “The one with the blue mark.”

Pause.

Your smile falters.

“…Blue mark?”

Ash stops moving. Slowly looks at you.

You glance down.

In your hand: a metal piece. Small. Heavy. Shiny. Blue mark. You’ve been fidgeting with it for the past twenty minutes. Rolling it over your knuckles. No thoughts. Just vibes.

“Oh,” you say. Softly. “This?”

The garage goes very, very quiet.

Ash just stares.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You hold it up. “You needed it?”

He closes his eyes. Long breath in. Longer breath out. The kind of breath people take when they’re choosing not to commit crimes.

“My love,” he says calmly, “that’s the only thing I need to finish this.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve been holding it.”

“Yeah but I didn’t know.”

“For half an hour.”

You wince. “In my defense—”

He takes it from you. Gently. Like if he’s rough, the universe will test him again.

“In your defense,” he says flatly, “you shouldn’t be allowed near machinery.”

You grin. Wide. Unrepentant. “But you love me near you.”

He pauses. Looks at you. Really looks. Oil-smudged cheek. Soft eyes pretending not to be soft.

“…Yeah,” he admits quietly. Then, firmer: “Stay seated.”

You stop dead as you were clearly going to stand up.

He goes back to the bike, socket finally clicking into place. The engine settles. Control restored. Order back in the universe.