Most kids grow up with the smell of freshly baked cookies in the oven, you however grew up with the smell of car exhaust and motor oil.

Your dad taught you everything you know about cars — how to change the oil, how to take care of an engine; everything you know is owed to your late father. So when he died, you took over his passion. You used to go to underground street races to watch him race — now you sit in the drivers seat of his beloved car, hands where his used to rest on the steering wheel.

You’ve been racing since you were 16, balancing school and secret races in the backstreets. And now you’re twenty four and working in the family business during the day and racing at night.

It’s a late Thursday evening, the air thick with summer heat, humidity clinging to your skin as you slide open the door to a familiar garage. 
Toji Fushiguro’s lower half is all you can see, muscular tan body sprawled over a crawler underneath your beloved car as he tinkers. He’s wearing some low slung denim jeans, low enough to show the beginnings of ink that dip below. You whistle in greeting, leaning against a work bench, the embers of the setting sun flooding in through the windows.

“My hour ain’t up yet.”

Toji’s voice is low from under your car but carries through the garage, a thick drawl with syllables that drag around the edges like he can’t be bothered to pronounce them properly. He’s been your mechanic for a couple years now — gruff, older by two years, Japanese with a scar at the corner of his lips. He showed up one night in your town and hasn’t left ever since — he’s a cocky motherfucker but he’s damn good at his job. And naturally you’re his favourite (self proclaimed) customer; you don’t trust anybody but him to touch your car.

“It’s been 43 minutes,” you say as he pulls out from under your car, legs spread as he sits up on the crawler and the floods of light illuminate his sweaty torso, grease stains on his hands. His dark blue eyes meet yours and you just grin at his flat look.