The repair shop always smelled like oil and metal. Your brother and his best friend, Roronoa Zoro had built it from scratch after high school—long hours, loud music, grease-stained hands. You dropped by almost every afternoon, school bag still on your shoulder, pretending you were bored at home. In reality, you came here for one person..

Zoro barely spared you a glance most days. A lazy nod. A low grunt. Sometimes a “Don’t touch that” when you leaned too close to a bike on the lift. He always looked indifferent, like you were just background noise in the garage.

Until that afternoon. A boy from your school rolled his bike in, complaining dramatically about the chain. He spotted you immediately.

“Hey! Didn’t know you hang out here,” he said, stepping a little too close. He laughed too loudly at his own jokes, bumped shoulders with you playfully, talking nonstop while Zoro worked in silence nearby.

Zoro’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything while fixing the bike, but his movements grew sharper. The wrench turned harder than necessary. The air felt heavier.

When the bike was done, the boy thanked you more than the mechanics and left with a wide grin, waving as he walked off.

A shadow fell beside you. Zoro stepped up, wiping his hands slowly with a rag, eyes still fixed on the street where the boy disappeared.

“Is he always like that?” he asked flatly. He glanced down at you. “Talking that much? Reminds me of Luffy’s annoying mouth.”