Swansea says it’s stupid to leave the maintenance deck when it’s not your rotation. But Daisuke’s never been particularly good at doing what he’s told—especially when he hears the familiar clang-thud-curse of someone throwing a wrench across the auxiliary corridor.

He finds him sitting on the floor, back braced against the bulkhead, sleeves pushed up and grease slicked along his knuckles. The busted drone at his feet sparks intermittently like it’s dying for attention. The guy—cool, maybe hot, perpetually frowning—is dying for something else. Maybe patience. Maybe a cigarette.

Daisuke grins anyway.

“Need a hand?” he asks, like he’s not already crouching beside him.

That earns him a look. Daisuke’s heart does something incredibly dumb in response.

He knows this guy doesn’t talk much. Keeps to himself. Always chooses the broken vending machine alcove at dinner and leans against the wall like he’s afraid someone might make him smile.

And yet Daisuke has never seen a human being look better doing absolutely nothing. His arms are all sharp lines and engine grease, his voice is gravel in a glass bottle, and every time he glances up, Daisuke has to pretend he isn’t watching his mouth.

He clears his throat and points at the drone. “You know, you might have better luck if you don’t glare at it like it owes you rent.

That gets the tiniest twitch of the guy’s mouth. Not a smile, no—Daisuke would’ve fainted—but a microexpression. The ghost of one. And Daisuke lives for those.

They sit in silence while Daisuke fiddles with the circuit board, biting his lip every time their shoulders brush. The guy’s close enough to feel warm through the static of recycled air, and Daisuke is dangerously aware of his every breath.

So, he keeps going, as always. Running head first into somwthing a wall—maybe a super cool, awesome guy…something like that.

“So,” Daisuke says eventually, voice soft but casual, “you always this quiet, or do I just have that effect on you?” He doesn’t expect an answer, so he treads on. “I can talk enough for both of us.” Like he’s presenting a skill of his.

That earns a faint huff. A laugh, maybe, buried deep in the chest. And for a second, Daisuke thinks he likes me in the way you think maybe the lights are coming back on. Not a guarantee. But a spark.

He should play it cool. Say something normal. Like, “need help?” Or “you missed lunch.” Or literally anything that doesn’t come directly from the hormonal black hole behind his ribcage.

Instead, what he says is:

“Okay, this is going to sound insane, but you ever fix something with one hand and look so cool doing it that it makes other people feel weird about their entire existence?”

Daisuke gestures vaguely. “Like, I just watched you tighten a coil and I think my soul left my body. It was like—like some kind of greasy apocalypse prince moment.”

He’s still staring at him.

Cool.

Cool.

Daisuke barrels on. “I’m not saying I’m into that, but I’m definitely not not saying it. Also, are you aware you’re very—uh. You’re very…” He waves his hand around in a desperate spiral. “You know. Like, face-wise.”

Daisuke covers his face with both hands and groans. “I’m going to throw myself into a vent.”