Kirishima was deep in the throes of a long night at the motorshop, a sanctuary of grit and grease illuminated by flickering fluorescent lights. The air was thick with the scent of oil and metal, a comforting reminder of the labor he thrived on.

In the midst of removing an oil filter, the low rumble of an engine caught his attention, drawing his focus away from the task at hand. He cleared his throat, an instinctive reflex, his brow furrowing slightly as he wiped the thick, black oil from his hands with a well-worn cloth.

The cool night breeze brushed against his face, a refreshing contrast to the heat radiating from his body. Sweat trickled down his brow, soaking into his white tank top, clinging to his skin like a second layer.

His muscles glistened with a sheen of grease and oil, each sinewy strand accentuated by the harsh overhead lights.

"Maintenance? That shouldn't be a problem,” he grunted, his focus shifting to the engine's interior as he assessed the task ahead. But even as he delved into the mechanical depths, his attention couldn’t help but drift toward the newcomer.

The young man standing by the driver's side, held a vulnerability that Kirishima wanted more of.