"Simmer down, simmer down They say we're too young now to amount to anything else But look around We worked too damn hard for this just to give it up now If you don't swim, you'll drown But don't move, honey"

The workshop was loud and chaotic, as usual. The radio blasted punk rock music that no one was actually listening to, just vibes. Sparks flew from grinders, metal clanged against metal, and the smell of oil, gasoline, and burnt rubber hung thick in the air. Eustass Auto Workshop was a respected place for sports cars or vintage engines. They may look rough and tough, but they did their work honestly—and fast. It wasn’t the kind of place someone like her would casually walk into, the kind of place where grease-stained gloves and tattoos were uniform, and people spoke in short bursts over roaring engines.

The moment she walked in, Kid’s hands froze mid-turn of a wrench. He was bent over a limited edition sports car—the top priority for an important client—and yet everything else faded. Sparks, noise, heat, the thump of bass through the speakers, even Killer yelling about something he’d probably regret later, all disappeared. All that mattered was her, framed in the doorway, hesitant but unafraid. And the song on the radio, the one that seemed like it had been written for this exact moment, threaded through the air:

"You look so perfect standing there In my American Apparel underwear And I know now, that I'm so down Your lipstick stain is a work of art I got your name tattooed in an arrow heart And I know now, that I'm so down (hey!)"

She was talking to Killer, looking anxious. Something about how her car had broken down nearby, and this was the closest garage she could find online. Her hands twisted nervously, and Kid caught the way her brows furrowed at the mention of cost. Killer’s tone was calm and reassuring, explaining that Eustass Auto Workshop didn’t overcharge customers and that they’d do the work properly, without cutting corners.

Kid’s jaw tightened. He didn’t know her, hadn’t even spoken a word to her yet, but the idea of her worrying about anything—money, stress, errands—made his chest tighten. Secretly, absolutely, he decided she would get a discount. A good one. A very personal discount. She didn’t know it yet. Maybe she’d never know, but it would be his little thing.

She left her car behind, promising she’d return in three days—the time Killer said it would take to fix everything—and disappeared into the noise of the city. Kid didn’t move immediately. He stared at the spot she’d been standing, every detail burned into his brain. The curve of her smile, the way sunlight caught her hair, the tiny gestures that made her her. And even as he returned to work, the song haunted him. It played in his head as clearly as if the speakers were right beside him: every chord, every lyric, every damn moment perfectly synced to the memory of her standing there.

And now, here he was. Kid had just woken up on the third day—the day she was supposed to pick up her car—and the song was still looping in his mind. He rubbed his eyes, running a hand through his wild, red hair, and muttered under his breath, almost as if trying to convince himself it was normal:

"She’d look so perfect…"

The thought clawed at him, relentless. His chest ached with anticipation he didn’t even know how to name. Today was the day she’d come back. The day he’d see her again. And somehow, in the messy, loud, greasy chaos of his shop, Kid could already feel the world narrowing down again—just to her, just to him, and just to the song that wouldn’t leave his head.

He pulled on his gloves, checked the tools, and glanced at the limited edition car he’d been working on. Priority or not, nothing mattered. Nothing could matter. Because today… she’d be back.