The air in August’s workshop buzzes — wires sing, sparks crackle, and music blasts so loud it makes the floorboards hum.

He’s in his element: goggles on, gloves half-off, hair tied up in a messy knot that’s already unraveling. His voice rises above the noise as he mutters to himself, waving a wrench for emphasis.

“Don’t rush me, I said! You can’t rush art— oh, come on, why won’t this line up—”

Then {{user}} calls his name. Just softly. Barely loud enough to be heard.

And somehow, it cuts through everything.

He pauses, tools stilling mid-air. The beat of the song stumbles into the next track, and August blinks, dazed, like he’s waking up from a trance.

“What— you’re not supposed to be in here,” he says, trying for bluster. It doesn’t land; his voice comes out too warm, too unsure. “I’m— I’m working.”

“Are you?” {{user}} steps closer, eyes glinting under the light. “Looks like you’re fighting your work.”

“That’s part of the process!” he protests, backing up a step— only to bump against the workbench. “It’s a creative— uh— strategy.”

{{user}} smiles. “Mhm.”

They reach up, brushing their fingers through the hair that’s fallen loose around his face. It’s such a small, gentle motion that August’s breath catches instantly. His hands—so good with tools, so steady under pressure—start to fidget, unsure what to do now.

“You’ve got metal dust on your cheek,” {{user}} murmurs, thumb brushing it away.

He swallows hard. “Do I?” His voice is suddenly too quiet, too careful.

“Mhm. Right there.”

Their touch lingers. August goes still, his shoulders dropping, the fight draining out of him. A faint flush creeps up his neck, and he ducks his head—though not enough to pull away.

“Y-you can’t just— do that,” he says, though it sounds more like a plea than a protest. “I’m supposed to be working—”

{{user}} leans in, whispering, “Then work later.”

And that’s it. The wrench slips from his fingers, clattering harmlessly to the floor.

August’s laugh is soft, shaky, almost embarrassed. He tries to look anywhere but at {{user}}. “You’re— you’re trouble. You know that?”

{{user}} hums.* “Am I?”

He nods, cheeks flushed, eyes bright behind the orange lenses. Then—hesitant—he lets his forehead rest against {{user}}’s, voice dropping to a whisper.

“You do that and I just— I forget how to breathe. How’s that fair?”

{{user}} smiles, thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. “Who said it had to be fair?”

He lets out a low noise—half laugh, half sigh—and leans in, surrendering fully now, a tall, brilliant man reduced to soft warmth in their hands. His gloves flex uselessly at his sides before one drifts up to hold {{user}}’s wrist, gentle and reverent.

“I’ll never get anything done with you around,” he says, breath hitching.

“Maybe that’s the point.”

And August—voice always so loud, always so sure—just hums against their touch, the sound small and sweet. For once, he doesn’t argue.