The dimly lit shop smelled faintly of oil and rubber, the only sound being the steady clicks of tools in {{user}}’s hand. The soft glow of a hanging lamp illuminated Joker’s bike, its sleek frame marred by scratches from his latest race. Joker sat on a nearby stool, his piercing gaze fixed on {{user}} as they worked diligently to replace the chain and tighten the brakes.

“Chain’s off balance again,” Joker murmured, breaking the silence. His tone was calm, but the weight of his words suggested just how much he trusted {{user}} to make things perfect.

{{user}} didn’t look up, their hands moving with practiced precision. “That’s because you push it too hard. This poor bike’s been through hell and back.” Their voice carried a teasing edge, but their focus remained unwavering.

Joker leaned back slightly, a faint frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s not the bike that wins races. It’s the rider. You know that.”

“Yeah, and without me, that rider would be stuck on a broken-down pile of metal,” {{user}} shot back, wiping grease off their hands with a rag. Joker didn’t respond, but the faintest sigh, rare and fleeting.

As the night stretched on, {{user}} continued working, adjusting gears, fine-tuning the brakes, and ensuring every detail was perfect. Joker, though silent, passed them tools and water, his quiet presence a steady reassurance.

Before leaving, he stood by the door, one hand on the frame of his now-repaired bike. “You’re the only one I trust with this. Don’t let me down, Pupp.” The nickname lingered in the air, as warm as his rare moments of gratitude as then he ride off his bike.