You and Choso are neighbors—backyards side by side, lives quietly tangled.

It’s late afternoon when you step outside to water your plants, and that’s when you see them—his legs, long and steady, sticking out from under the car in his driveway. He’s on a creeper, jumpsuit tied at his waist, arms slick with grease, focused like the world doesn’t exist past what he’s fixing.

You try not to stare. Try and fail.

“Hard at work again?” you call, casual—too casual.

There’s a soft clink of metal, then he slides out slowly, blinking up at you like he wasn’t expecting company. His hair’s a mess, tank top clinging to his chest, a streak of grease across his jaw.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and hoarse, like gravel and honey. “Something like that.”

You smile. He does too—but only a little. Just for you.