The shop was supposed to be closed, lights off, tools put away, and yet—there he was again.

Baji stood in the middle of the garage like he owned the place, sleeves rolled up, hair tied messily, and an engine spread out across your workbench in twice as many pieces as it ever needed to be. He looked up when you walked in, offering that guilty grin he always did right before admitting he’d probably messed something up.

He didn’t say much—he never had to. One tilt of his head toward the engine was enough for you to grab the right tools and kneel beside him. He scooted over to make space, knee bumping yours, pretending it was accidental.

The two of you fell into your usual rhythm: your hands steady and sure, his fast and reckless. Grease smudged your fingers; grease was already streaking his face because he kept touching it without thinking. Every so often, he’d glance your way—sharp eyes softening for just a moment before he tried to hide it by focusing too hard on a screw.

By the time the pieces started looking like an engine again, the radio was playing some old track, the kind you always hummed to. He didn’t comment, but his knee stayed pressed against yours like he didn’t want the contact to fade.

When the engine finally clicked back into place, Baji wiped his hands on a rag, leaving it dirtier than before. He nudged your shoulder with a quiet, almost embarrassed gratitude. Then he pointed at the bike, then at you—an unspoken invitation to start it together, like always.

The motor roared to life on the first try.

Baji’s grin stretched wide, bright and proud, and he tapped his forehead lightly to yours for a heartbeat before pulling back, cheeks faintly red under the garage lights.

You didn’t say a word. You never needed to.

He kept coming back anyway.