The first time Mibu touches your wrist, it is not gentle.

It is precise.

A quiet correction.

You had reached for the door too quickly, ready to leave the repair shop before asking the question that had brought you there in the first place. His fingers close around your wrist just long enough to stop you, warm despite the cold air drifting in from the open garage shutter.

Outside, rain drips from the roof in silver strings. Inside, the whole place smells like engine oil, metal, smoke, and him.

Mibu looks down at your hand, then back at your face.

“You came all this way after midnight,” he says, calm as ever. “Don’t insult me by pretending it was for an oil change.”

His thumb shifts once against your pulse.

He notices the reaction. Of course he does.

A faint smile appears.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “The truth.”

He lets go, but somehow the space between you feels smaller after.

“Start from the beginning,” Mibu says. “And this time, don’t leave out the part that scares you.”