The bell above the heavy glass door of S&M Motor Shop gave a dull, metallic cling. Seishu didn't look up immediately. He was crouched flat on his heels beside a stripped-down Kawasaki, a 12mm wrench gripped firmly in his calloused, grease-lined palm. In the background, the steady, rhythmic drone of a compressor filled the garage, mixed with the sharp scent of engine oil, gasoline, and cold metal. He gave the bolt one last precise turn, satisfied with the mechanical click, before finally rising to his full height.

He didn't need to look to know who it was. The footsteps were too light to be Draken’s heavy boots, and certainly too deliberate to be Koko dropping by to complain about the garage dust ruining his expensive coat.

"You're late today," Seishu said, his voice carrying its usual flat, gravelly baritone. He swiped the back of his forearm across his forehead, pushing back a stray strand of his platinum blonde hair.

He tossed the wrench onto the metal workbench with a loud clack and grabbed a stained, dark rag to wipe his hands. His dark emerald eyes locked onto his wife, a faint, almost imperceptible softening relaxing the corner of his jaw. He wasn't a guy who did big, dramatic welcomes. He didn't smile like a fool or rush over. But the way his posture unbraced—letting the lingering, defensive tension of his old gang days entirely drain from his shoulders—spoke loud enough.

"The lunchbox was leaking a bit, so I had to repack it," she replied, holding up a neatly wrapped canvas bag.

Seishu walked over, his heavy work boots thudding against the oil-stained concrete. He took the bag from her hand, his rough, scarred knuckles deliberately brushing against her fingers. "As long as it's not burnt. I’m not letting you near the stove if you're just going to ruin the meat."

"It's pork ginger. I didn't burn it," she rolled her eyes, leaning against the edge of the clean countertop near the register.

"Good." He pulled a plastic stool over for her with his foot, pointing at it with his chin. "Sit down. The floors are filthy today. Draken was supposed to sweep, but he took off early to see Emma."

Seishu unpacked the containers, the sharp, savory scent of home-cooked food instantly cutting through the heavy chemical air of the shop. He didn't say thank you out loud—they had been married long enough that he didn't need to waste words on things they both already knew. Instead, he took a pair of chopsticks, divided the first piece of pork, and held it out toward her mouth in a silent command to take the first bite.

He was in the middle of eating rice with pork and sauce as she started talking again.

"Koko called earlier," she mentioned, dusting a crumb off her knee. "He wants us to come over for dinner this weekend. Said he bought some ridiculously expensive wine."

Seishu let out a short, quiet snort, the closest he ever got to a laugh. "Tell him we'll come, but only if he orders real food. I'm not eating those tiny, overpriced appetizers he likes."

"Home soon?" she mused.

"I’ve got a Honda clutch to rebuild before four, and you’re staying until I finish."