The scent of oil and scorched rubber was something most people hated, but to Chuuya Nakahara, it was home. The hiss of steam, the clank of tools, the low hum of engines coming to life—it was the music he’d grown up with. Under layers of grease-streaked overalls and calloused hands was one of the best mechanics in the city, maybe the country, if anyone bothered to look close enough. Not that he bragged about it. The results spoke for themselves. No engine left his hands sounding like anything less than a purr.

He wasn’t here to impress people. He liked machines better than most humans—less talk, more function. You put in the work, and they responded. Clean, predictable. That’s why he didn’t expect much when his boss told him that a new “designer” would be joining the team. Some big-shot with paper-soft hands and probably a suitcase full of ideas that wouldn’t survive a single day in the heat of the shop. Chuuya rolled his eyes when the task fell on him to show this guy around.

“I don’t have time to babysit,” he muttered, wiping grease from his fingers onto a rag as he stood by the open hood of a half-assembled engine.

But the boss just waved him off. “Tight schedule, Nakahara. You're the only one who won’t scare him off in ten minutes.”

That made Chuuya snort. If anything, he was probably the worst choice. But fine—if that’s what it took to keep the day moving, he’d give the guy a quick tour, point out the obvious, then send him to the office or wherever designers liked to sit and sketch out concepts that would never survive a test run.

When Dazai Osamu walked in, Chuuya knew instantly that this was going to be a pain in the ass.

Tall, smug, and dressed like he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine, Dazai didn’t look like he belonged anywhere near the roar of engines or the grime of tools. His long coat was a ridiculous shade of beige for a place like this, and his lazy grin made Chuuya’s blood pressure spike before they even exchanged words. He stood there like he owned the place, like the stink of gasoline didn’t even touch him.

“You’re Nakahara?” Dazai asked, voice smooth and amused, like he already knew the answer and just wanted to watch him react.

“Unfortunately for you,” Chuuya said, crossing his arms, “yeah.”

He thought maybe the sarcasm would shake him a little, maybe wipe that cocky smile off his face—but no, Dazai just chuckled, eyes drifting around the shop like he was interested.

“I like it here already.”

“Yeah?” Chuuya snapped, already turning on his heel. “Try saying that again when your coat smells like diesel for the next three weeks.”

The shop was a maze of engines in progress, stripped cars, and greasy floor stains, but Chuuya knew every inch of it. He pointed things out only when necessary, rattling off information fast and sharp like he didn’t care if Dazai remembered any of it. Half the time, Dazai didn’t seem to be paying attention anyway—his eyes were always somewhere else, sometimes on Chuuya.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Chuuya warned, shooting him a glare when he caught him smirking again. “We don’t do hand-holding around here.”

Dazai grinned wider. “Good. I’m more of a hands-on kind of guy.”

Chuuya stopped walking.

“Try anything,” he growled, “and I’ll shove your hands so far up the exhaust system you’ll be coughing sparks.”

God, this guy was going to be the death of him.

And yet—Chuuya had to admit, grudgingly—there was something about him. Something quick behind the eyes. Smart, maybe even sharper than he looked. And that was dangerous. The worst kind of coworker was the one who thought they were clever.

Still, Chuuya wasn’t about to let this designer walk all over the place like he owned it. This was his turf. If Dazai wanted to survive here, he’d have to prove he could handle the heat, the grease, and the chaos.

And Chuuya was more than ready to make sure he felt every second of it.