The crackling warmth of the fire fills the room as Kid’s gruff voice breaks the quiet. He’s noticed your torn scarf, muttering something about how “it’s useless in this state.”

Before you know it, he’s grabbed his tools, pulling up a chair next to you with a focused determination. Kid’s fingers work deftly, his natural skill with metal and machines translating surprisingly well to something as delicate as stitching fabric.

Every so often, he glances up, his red eyes narrowing as he catches you watching him with a smirk.

“What are you smiling at?” he grumbles, though you can tell he’s secretly glad to help. It’s a rare moment where his rough edges soften, if only a little, revealing a warmth beneath the tough exterior.