Kiki | hiatus

It’s not what he says so much as how he says it—low, husky, like the line came straight from whatever part of his brain is currently not supervised by common sense.

Like he’s talking to Miki, not you.

Like this is a panel that should be shrink-wrapped and slapped with an 18+ sticker.

Your heartbeat slams against your ribs, stupid and loud.

He realises what he’s just said a second too late. His eyes flick to yours, wide, like he wants to drag the sentence back into his mouth and swallow it whole.

You could laugh it off, call him a pervert, roll your eyes, tell him his brain’s made of hentai now.

You don’t.

You feel your lashes lower, like they’re heavy. Your mouth goes a little soft around the edges.

Fine, then.

If that’s the game.

You turn slightly on the couch, angle your body towards him. The blanket slips down one shoulder. You reach out again, fingers closing gently around his wrist.

The pulse there jumps under your thumb.

You keep your eyes on his, steady. Try on that look you’ve practiced for Miki in the mirror, the one that lives somewhere between bored and hungry.

“This spot?” you ask, voice coming out lower than you meant.

Your tongue meets his skin again, dragging the tip along the inside edge of his thumb, where the knuckle meets the pad.

He reaches your AE86, parked along the back wall of the bay where you left it before the convoy.

His hand comes up. Taps the hood. Twice. Like he’s greeting it.

Still hasn’t turned around.

“Nice technique.”

Two words, low and even.

And they don’t sound nice at all.

Your chest coils. Tight. That feeling you get at the top of a hill before the descent—anticipation threaded with the knowledge that gravity’s about to make every decision for you.

“Thanks,” you say.

He turns enough to give you the side profile—the cut of his jaw, the line of his nose, the way his tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek and stays there. His eyebrows are raised. Not in surprise. In that specific way that says ‘I am giving you one chance to explain yourself before I stop being civil about this.’

His eyes find yours.

And he explodes.

“¿Estás loca? ¿Me estás jodiendo? ¡Te tiraste de costado en una curva a ochenta kilómetros por hora en un auto que manejaste DOS VECES EN TU VIDA!” (Are you crazy? Are you fucking with me? You threw yourself sideways into a curve at eighty kilometers an hour in a car you’ve driven TWICE IN YOUR LIFE!)

The Spanish comes out like an avalanche—fast, heated, consonants clipping, vowels dragging in that way they do when he’s too worked up to regulate his accent.

His hands leave his pockets, gesturing broad and emphatic, the way he only does when his body can’t contain whatever’s happening inside his head.

“¡OCHENTA, Hachi! ¡De costado! ¡En un Mustang que pesa DOS TONELADAS y que apenas conocés! ¿Sabés lo que pasa si calculás mal eso? ¿SABÉS?” (EIGHTY, Hachi! Sideways! In a Mustang that weighs TWO TONS and that you barely know! Do you know what happens if you miscalculate that? DO YOU KNOW?)

You don’t understand a word.

Not one.

And it’s—

God.

It shouldn’t be attractive.

It really, really shouldn’t.

He’s angry. He’s genuinely, visibly angry in a way you’ve never seen directed at you before—pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, hand dragging through his hair, jaw working between sentences like he’s two seconds away from losing it completely.

But the sound of it.

The way his voice drops into that rough, low register when the Spanish takes over. The way his body moves differently when he speaks it—more fluid, more open, everything in his posture amplifying what his mouth is doing. The way the words roll and snap and curve, equal parts melody and aggression, like someone wrote a language specifically to make you lose your mind.

God, is Park Jimin hot when he’s angry and speaking Spanish.

And maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s the fact that you just slid a 4,000-pound car sideways through a gap that shouldn’t have fit a motorcycle, that your blood’s still carbonated with the kind of chemical high that comes from tricking death and walking away grinning.

Maybe it’s the residual hum of the mountain still vibrating through your nerve endings, that animal part of your brain that processed ‘I didn’t die’ and immediately pivoted to ’so what am I going to do with all this being alive?’

Or maybe—and this is the one you keep circling back to like a car around a track—

Maybe it’s those hands.

The ones currently cutting through the air as he gestures. The ones with the split knuckles from punching Shinji in the jaw for you. The broad palms, the long fingers, the forsaken rings.

The ones that were between your legs days ago and made you cum for the first time ever.

From a stupid thumb.

“—¿y qué hago yo si te pasa algo, eh? ¿Qué mierda hago, Hachi? ¿Le digo a Maya ‘ay, perdón, se mató en MI auto haciendo MI maniobra por MIS problemas’—?” (—and what do I do if something happens to you, huh? What the fuck do I do, Hachi? Do I tell Maya ‘oh, sorry, she got herself killed in MY car doing MY maneuver because of MY problems’—?)

His voice cracks, and you realize he was scared. Watching the race from the lot, watching you disappear sideways through a gap at 80 kph on a phone screen he couldn’t control or change or influence—he was terrified.

That should sober you up. Should make the heat in your stomach cool, should make you want to close the gap and tell him you’re sorry, you’re fine, you won’t do it again.

It doesn’t.

Because your brain—your stupid, wired, post-mountain, adrenaline-poisoned brain—takes the fear in his voice and the anger in his body and the split knuckles on his hands and the way he switched to Spanish because he couldn’t stay in Japanese when he’s this raw and it processes all of that into a single, devastating conclusion:

He cares.

He cares and he’s angry because he cares and he punched Shinji because he cares and he followed the convoy to Hakone because he cares and he’s standing here shaking because he cares and days ago he made you come with those caring, angry, split-knuckled hands and you want them on you again right now.

You want to find out what Park Jimin is like when the restraint runs out and he stops caring.

“—te vi en la pantalla del teléfono de Rico y casi me agarra un infarto, ¿sabés? ¡CASI ME MUERO! Yo acá parado como un pelotudo mirando—” (I saw you on Rico’s phone screen and I almost had a heart attack, you know? I ALMOST DIED! Me standing here like an idiot watching—)

You bite your lip.

He catches it. Exhales. Drags both hands down his face. Looks at you through his fingers.

“This isn’t funny,” he says. Japanese now. Shared language. “Hachi, I’m being serious right now.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because you’re standing there looking—”

He gestures at your face. Vaguely. Frustrated.

“—like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you think this is cute.”

It’s not that you think it’s cute.

It’s that you think it’s hot.

His eyes drop to your mouth. Lock.

“No es gracioso, Hachi—” (It’s not funny, Hachi—)

Spanish again. He’s watching you bite your lip and he’s switched languages without realizing it.

Apparently, when the Japanese dissolves and the Spanish takes over, it means the civilized part of his brain has left the building and something more primal is running the show.

You let your teeth drag slowly across the skin before releasing.

“La reputa madre—no hagas eso—” His voice has gone raspy. “No te muerdas la boca cuando te estoy hablando porque me dan ganas y estoy tratando de estar enojado, Hachi—te estoy hablando en serio y vos—” (For fucks sake—don’t do that—don’t bite your mouth when I’m talking to you because I get in the mood and I’m trying to remain angry, Hachi—I’m being serious and you—)

The words tumble, rushed, tripping over themselves, and you catch one phrase because his voice drops when he says it—drops into that basement register that lives somewhere behind your ribs—and wraps around those three syllables like they’re being dragged out of him against his will.

‘Me dan ganas.’

You don’t know what it means.

But it sounds like the noise his throat made when you rolled your hips against him in that twin bed.

It sounds like the exhale he couldn’t hide when your thighs clamped around his hand.

It sounds like want.

Raw, uncensored, involuntary want.

“What does that mean?” you ask. “Me dan ganas?”

He stares at you.

“No.”

“No what?”

“I’m not translating.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re looking—” He points at your face. At your mouth, specifically. “—you’re looking all innocent but you’re actually planning something evil. I see you. I know you.”

“I’m just asking a question.”

“Mentira.” (Liar)

“Does it mean something bad?”

“Hachi—”

“Me dan ganas.” You roll it around your mouth like a lollipop. “Does that mean you wanna fuck me, Jaque?”

He makes a choked exhale that’s half gasp and half disbelief, his head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut like he’s praying to a god who very clearly has a sense of humor.

“Hachi.” He’s trying to physically hold his expression together. “This is—I’m trying to be mad at you right now—”

“But you’re so hot when you’re angry.”

His hands freeze.

He looks at you through his fingers. One eye. Then both.

“What did you just say?”

You step closer, one step that puts you inside the radius of his body heat.

“You heard me.” Your voice drops. Lower than it should. “When you speak Spanish. When you’re angry. The way you pace and your voice goes all…”

You gesture at him.

At his mouth.

“It’s really, really hot.”

“Stop.”

“Me dan ganas.”

“Don’t—you can’t just—” Sputtering. Park Jimin, the smoothest talker in Tokyo’s underground, is sputtering. “You don’t use my language against me—that’s—you don’t even know what it means—”

“I think I know exactly what it means.”

“You DON’T—”

“Hmm.”

You tilt your head the other way. Let your gaze trace from his eyes to his mouth. His jaw. Down his throat where you can see his pulse hammering. The collar of his shirt. Back up. Slow enough that he can feel every stop along the route.

“But me dan ganas,” you say softly.

The pronunciation is atrocious. The vowels are wrong, the emphasis is off, you’re butchering his mother tongue with the cheerful confidence of someone who knows the destruction isn’t in the accuracy but in the attempt.

“La concha de tu madre, Hachi—” (For fuck’s sake, Hachi— / lit: your mother’s cunt)

“I know that one too. You say it a lot.”

Your fingers land on his chest. Just the tips. Light. Feeling his heartbeat under the fabric—fast, hard, furious—and the heat that comes off him in waves.

“I can’t tell, Jaque…” you murmur.

Your fingers begin a slow descent. Down from his collarbone, tracing the center line of his chest. You can feel each breath expand and contract under your touch.

“…Are you mad at me? Or are you mad at me?”

“Both.” It comes out grated. Barely. “I’m—Hachi, you almost died tonight—”

“But I didn’t.”

Your fingers reach his stomach. The muscles there seize under your touch—hard, involuntary, his abs contracting like he’s bracing for impact.

“I’m right here. Alive. In one piece.”

Your hand flattens. Palm against his abdomen. Warm cotton over warm skin over warm muscle that’s jumping under your touch like a current’s running through it.

“And I remember,” you say quietly, “what these hands can do.”

Something in his expression cracks.

“Hachi—”

“Four days ago.” Your thumb traces a small circle against his stomach. Idle. Devastating. “Your thumb. Through cotton. And I—”

“Don’t.”

“—came so hard I couldn’t breathe.”

His hand shoots out. Wraps around your wrist. Doesn’t pull your hand away—just holds it there, pressed against his stomach, his grip tight enough that you can feel his pulse throbbing through his fingers.

He’s shaking.

Not a lot, not visibly, but you can feel it—this fine tremor running through his hand, through his arm, through the entire frame of his body like an engine idling too high.

Restraint.

Pure, white-knuckled, barely-surviving restraint.

“And I want a second one,” you finish.

His free hand finds your hip—grabs it, hard, fingers digging into the bone—and he walks you backward.

Two steps.

Three.

Your lower back hits the hood of the AE86 and the metal is cold through your clothes and the contact shoots straight up your spine and then he’s there—

Caging you.

Both hands braced on the hood on either side of your hips. Arms locked straight. Face inches from yours.

He’s looking at you the way you assume he looked at his phone screen on that mountain—like you’re the most dangerous thing he’s ever encountered and he can’t decide if he wants to save you or take you apart piece by piece.

“You—” His voice is demolished, gravel and want. “You are the worst person I have ever met.”

“And yet.”

You tilt your chin up. Let your mouth hover just below his. Close enough to share air. Close enough that your lower lip almost—almost—ghosts against his.

“Here you are,” you whisper. “Shaking.”

“I’m not shaking.”

“You’re definitely shaking.”

“I’m restraining myself.”

“From what?”

A breath punches out of him. Almost a laugh, almost a groan—this raw, broken sound that vibrates through the few centimeters separating your chests.

“From what—”

He tilts his head. Lets his nose brush yours.

Not a kiss. Worse than a kiss.

A reminder of the distance he’s choosing to maintain and how little of it is left.

“From bending you over this car and—”

He stops. Bites his tongue. Literally—you can see his teeth clamp down on the muscle, can see the effort it takes to swallow the rest of that sentence.

His forehead drops. Lands against yours. Warm, slightly damp with sweat, his breath fanning fast and hot across your lips.

“You just cheated death,” he says against your mouth. “And you’re standing here trying to get me to fuck you instead of letting me be scared about it.”

“Is it working?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Jaque.”

You bring your hand up. The one he’s not holding hostage against his stomach. Your fingers find the back of his neck—the short hair there, the warm skin—and you press. Gentle. Pulling him a fraction closer.

His whole body shudders.

“You wanna be angry?” you murmur. “Be angry. But be angry closer.”

“Hachi—”

“Me dan ganas.”

“You don’t even—that’s not—you’re mispronouncing it—”

“Pero me dan ganas, Jaque.”

“La concha de—” His arms buckle. Just barely. One centimeter of lost distance that puts his mouth even closer to yours. “Hachi, if you say that one more time I’m not going to be able to—”

“Me.”

His grip on the hood tightens until his knuckles go white.

“Dan.”

His breath comes out in a rush against your lips.

“Ganas.”

His mouth crashes into yours and the sound that tears out of him—low, guttural, pulled from somewhere behind his ribs—vibrates straight through your teeth.

His hands leave the hood, both of them, and they’re on you instantly. One fisting the hair at the base of your skull, the other wrapping around your waist, dragging you off the hood and flush against his body with a force that knocks the breath out of your lungs.

He kisses like he races.

Reckless. Aggressive. Zero regard for what happens next because right now is the only thing that exists.

His mouth is open against yours, hot and demanding, tongue sliding past your lips before you’ve even decided to let him in. He tastes like canned coffee and fury and warmth and bitterness, and irma somehow addictive in a way that makes your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

You kiss back harder.

Because you didn’t cheat death on a mountain thirty minutes ago to be delicate about this. You bite his bottom lip—not playful, not teasing, a real bite with real pressure and real teeth—and the noise that rips out of his chest is obscene. This choked, ragged groan that he feeds directly into your mouth.

His hand tightens in your hair. Pulls.

Your neck arches. Involuntary. Throat exposed, and the sound that escapes you is embarrassing—high and thin and nothing like the controlled woman who just won a territorial race against two cars by herself.

“Cute,” he breathes against your jaw.

Asshole.

But he doesn’t give you time to snap back because his mouth is already on your neck. Open, wet, dragging down the column of your throat with this intoxicating intent that makes your toes curl inside your sneakers.

Your hand flies to the back of his head to hold him there.

“Nnh—”

“Fuck—Hachi—”

“Y-you were talking about bending me over something,” you manage. “What happened to that?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you and his face—

God.

Lips swollen. Eyes black. A flush crawling up his throat that you’ve never seen before because this is new territory, this is past the twin bed, past the careful thumb-through-cotton, past every line of restraint he’s drawn since the first time you kissed him.

“Qué boca tan sucia tenés,” he mutters. (What a dirty mouth you have)

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Good.”

He kisses you again. Deeper this time—his tongue finding yours, curling around it, and you suck it into your mouth without thinking and the sound he makes is so filthy it should be illegal.

His hips roll forward, grinding the hard ridge of himself against you—slow, purposeful, a rhythm that has nothing to do with desperation and everything to do with making a point.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt. Slip under. His stomach is hot and tense under your palms, and you feel the V-lines at his hips, the trail of hair below his navel, the ridge of his waistband.

His breathing fractures against your mouth.

“Fuck, Hachi,” he says. “Your—your hands—Hachi—”

“What about them?”

“They’re cold.”

“Mmm.” You drag your nails lightly down his abdomen. Watch him shudder. “Poor baby.”

He drops his forehead against yours. His breathing is unsteady now, chest heaving. The hand in your hair loosens. Slides down to the side of your neck, thumb pressing against your pulse.

“Fast,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Your heart.” His thumb strokes once. “Going fast.”

“Yeah, well.” Your fingers trace the line of his hipbone. “You’re grinding on me. Kind of hard to stay calm.”

His laugh is rough. Airless.

Then his hands drop to your hips. Both of them. Grip hard—his fingers digging into the flesh over the bone—and he lifts.

Not picks-up-and-carries lifts. Just—hoists. Tips you back onto the hood of the 86, your ass hitting metal, and steps between your legs in one fluid motion that says he’s been thinking about this specific geometry for a while.

His hands push your knees apart. Settle into the space he’s made. And when his hips meet yours this time—

Better. So much better.

The hard line of his cock presses directly against your pussy through the layers of fabric between you.

Your head drops back. A sound claws up your throat that you barely muffle by biting the inside of your cheek.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Don’t do that,” he says against your collarbone. His mouth’s migrated south—pressing open, wet kisses along the neckline of your top, his breath heating the fabric. “Don’t swallow it. I wanna hear you.”

“There are people—” You gesture vaguely toward the lot beyond the columns. “—out there.”

“There are walls.” His hips press forward. Slow. Grinding. “And you’re the boss of this place. Nobody’s walking back here.”

He’s right and you hate that he’s right and you hate more that the semi-public element of it is doing something to the back of your brain that you’re not ready to examine.

His mouth finds your neck again. The other side this time. He laps down—lower, closer to where your shoulder starts—and your hands fly to his back, nails raking through the cotton of his shirt.

“Mm—mierda—” His hips stutter against yours. “Do that again.”

You dig your nails in. Drag them up his spine through the shirt.

“Jaque—”

“Say it again.” He’s kissing up your throat now. Jaw, chin, the corner of your mouth. “My name. Say it.”

“Jaque.”

He makes a sound. This low, satisfied growl that vibrates against your skin.

“No—the other one.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Jimin.”

The reaction is immediate. His hips snap forward, involuntary, a thrust with his full weight behind it that punches the air out of your lungs and sends sparks scattering behind your eyelids. Your hands grab his shoulders for purchase.

“Again,” he breathes.

“Ji—min—”

“Here?” He rolls again.

Same spot. Same angle. Same devastating pressure.

“Yes—ngh—yes—”

“Mm.” He adjusts. Finds the angle that makes you twitch and commits to it—slow grinds that drag the hard length of his cock across your clit. “You’re shaking, Hachi.”

“I’m not—”

“Your legs.” His hands find your thighs. Squeeze. “Right here. You’re shaking.”

He’s right. Your thighs are trembling where they’re locked around his hips. Fine, involuntary tremors you can’t control because the friction is building and he’s found the spot and every roll of his hips pushes you closer to something you’re not ready for.

Not yet. Not this fast. You refuse to come from dry humping in a mechanic bay like a teenager in the backseat of their first car.

You grab his face. Both hands. Bring his mouth back to yours and kiss him—messy, wet, all tongue and teeth and the taste of anger and want and the mountain still on both of you.

His hands tighten on your thighs. His rhythm stutters and you feel his breath hitch against your mouth.

Good.

If you’re losing control, he’s coming down with you.

You roll your hips. Into him. Meet his next thrust with a counter-motion that catches him off guard and the sound that spills from his mouth into yours—

“Ha—Hachi—conchetumadre—”

Spanish again. Leaking out between kisses like steam from a valve that can’t hold anymore.

His forehead presses against yours. Eyes squeezed shut. Breathing ragged.

“Tell me something,” you whisper against his mouth.

“What.”

“In Spanish.”

His eyes open. Searching. Half-lidded and blown.

“Why?”

“Because I like the way it sounds when you can’t think straight.”

He laughs. Broken. His hips grind forward again and you feel his cock twitch through the denim and the noise you both make at the same time would be funny if it wasn’t so desperate.

“Sos—” He swallows. Tries again. “Sos la mujer más peligrosa que conocí en mi vida y me estás matando, Hachi, me estás matando—” (You’re the most dangerous woman I’ve met in my life and you’re killing me, Hachi, you’re killing me—)

You don’t understand a word.

You don’t care.

You pull him closer and kiss the Spanish out of his mouth.

And then his mouth moves down your throat and you feel his teeth graze the skin above your collarbone and your hand shoots up—fast, instinctive—and catches his jaw.

He stops.

Looks at you. Confused. Pupils blown, mouth wet, breathing like he’s just run a sprint.

“No marks,” you say.

His brows pull together. His eyes drop to the spot his mouth was heading—the visible skin above the neckline of your top.

The skin Rei would see.

You don’t say that. Don’t need to.

Understanding moves through his expression in stages.

Confusion first. Then recognition. Then something harder—this brief thing that crosses his face like a shadow before he packs it away behind something neutral.

“Right,” he says. Quiet. “The fiancé.”

It’s not bitter. Not accusatory. Just a fact. A variable he’s already accepted.

But his jaw tightens under your hand.

“Below the collar,” you say. “Nothing visible.”

He holds your gaze for a beat. Two. Long enough that you feel the weight of what you’re asking—mark me, want me, but only where nobody else can see.

Only where it’s yours and his and hidden.

Then his mouth curves.

“Below the collar,” he repeats. “I can work with that.”

His hands find the hem of your shirt.

Your stomach contracts from the feeling of his knuckles brushing your hip bones as he gathers fabric, from the slow drag of cotton riding up your stomach, your ribs, the bottom edge of your bra.

He pauses. Checks your face.

You lift your arms.

He pulls the shirt over your head. Drops it somewhere—you hear the soft sound of fabric hitting the floor but you’re not watching the shirt because you’re watching him.

Watching the exact moment Park Jimin sees your tits in a bra for the first time.

And—

Oh.

Oh, this is worth every stupid decision you’ve made in the last week.

He goes still. Completely, utterly still. His hands frozen at his sides where they dropped after pulling the shirt free. His mouth slightly open. Eyes locked on your chest with the focus of a man staring directly into the face of God.

It’s a white bra. Lacey. Nothing obscene—just a well-fitted, pretty thing with scalloped edges and a small bow between the cups that you bought because it was on sale and it fit and you liked the way it looked.

Not that you’ve ever liked your boobs.

You hate them.

You’ve always hated them because they make you a target.

In boardrooms where men look at your chest before your face. In garages where mechanics talk to your tits instead of your hands. In every male-dominated space you’ve ever occupied—which is all of them—your body arrived first and your competence showed up later, if anyone bothered to wait for it.

So you cover. You’ve always covered. Sports bras that flatten. Loose shirts. Jackets zipped to the collar. Layering until what’s underneath is a rumor instead of a statement.

You learned early that the less they see, the more they listen, and you made your peace with that trade-off before you were old enough to drive.

But the way he’s looking at you right now—

He’s not looking at your chest the way boardroom men do. Not cataloguing, not assessing, not calculating what your body means in relation to their power.

He’s looking at you like you just knocked the wind out of him.

Like you’re something he built in his head during long nights and lonely drives and now you’re real and the reality is so much more than the fantasy that his operating system crashed.

Something dangerous blooms in the pit of your stomach.

Something that wants to buy more bras like this one.

Something that wants lace and satin and sheer things that cost more than 1,800 yen—not for Rei, not for herself, but for him.

For this exact reaction.

For the way Park Jimin is standing in a mechanic bay with his mouth open and his brain offline because of a sale-rack bra and the body you’ve spent your whole life hiding.

That’s dangerous.

“Jaque?”

Nothing.

“Jaque.”

His mouth closes. Opens again. Closes.

Then he steps back.

Not toward you. Away.

One step. Two. Three. Turns on his heel and walks a tight circle in the middle of the bay, both hands coming up to lace behind his neck, elbows in, face tipped toward the ceiling.

“No,” he says to the rafters. “No, no, no. Nope.”

You blink.

“What?”

He keeps pacing.

His hands migrate from his neck to his face, press flat against his cheeks, drag down. Then back up to his hair. Then his neck again. A full circuit of self-soothing gestures that isn’t self-soothing at all.

“No mames.” He says it to himself. Under his breath. “No mames, no mames, no mames—” (No way, no way, no way—)

“What’s happening right now?”

He stops pacing.

Looks at you.

Looks at your chest.

Looks away. Fast. Like staring at the sun.

“Nope.” He walks another circle. Tighter. His hand comes down and adjusts himself through his jeans with zero subtlety. “Nope. No. This isn’t—I can’t—”

You’re sitting on the hood of your AE86, shirtless, in a white lace bra, watching a grown ass man who regularly drives at 300 kilometers per hour have a full mental breakdown because of your tits.

This is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to you.

“Are you… okay?”

“NO.” He says it immediately. Emphatically. His voice cracks on the single syllable. “No, Hachi, I’m not okay. I’m not—look at—you can’t just—”

He gestures at your chest. Both hands. Like he’s presenting evidence at trial.

“Mirá eso.” Back to Spanish. “Mirá. How is—why are they—how do they just sit like that—” (Look at that. Look)

“They’re boobs, Jaque. They sit because of the bra. That’s how bras work.”

“DON’T EXPLAIN BRAS TO ME RIGHT NOW.”

You press your lips together. Bite the inside of your cheek. Force your expression into something approaching neutral.

It doesn’t hold. The corner of your mouth twitches.

He sees it. Points at you.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re about to laugh.”

“I’m really not.”

“Your face is doing the thing—”

“What thing—”

“THE THING where you’re trying not to and it makes it WORSE—”

A laugh escapes. You slap your hand over your mouth but it’s too late—the sound ricochets off the bay walls and he makes this noise of absolute despair.

“Yeah. Laugh it up.” He’s still pacing but slower now, orbiting like a satellite that can’t decide whether to crash or maintain altitude. “Real funny. Meanwhile I’m having a genuine medical emergency over here—”

“A medical emergency.”

“My brain just stopped working. That counts.”

“Because of my boobs.”

“Because of your—” He gestures again. Helplessly. “—yes. Those. In that—is that lace?”

“Yes.”

“White lace.”

“It was on sale.”

“On SALE,” he repeats. Like the concept of discount lingerie is personally offensive to him. “You’re telling me the thing that’s about to ruin my entire life cost you, what, 2,000 yen?”

“1,800.”

He crouches.

Just—drops. Right there in the middle of the mechanic bay. Sinks onto his heels, hands coming up and pressing together against his face—fingertips at his forehead, palms flat against his nose and mouth—like he’s gathering himself. Like he’s in confession. Like he’s physically holding his own skull together because whatever’s happening inside it requires structural support.

His eyes are squeezed shut above his pressed-together hands. Chest rising and falling too fast.

From the looks of it, you’d say he cannot believe he’s actually looking at your tits in a pretty white lace bra.

He’s not looking, technically. That’s the point of the crouch. He removed himself from the line of sight because the line of sight was doing critical damage.

You stare down at him from the hood.

“Did you just… crouch?”

“I’m processing.”

“On the floor?”

“It’s where my body decided to be right now and I’m not arguing with it.”

“You look like you’re praying.”

“I am praying.” His voice is muffled against his palms. “I’m praying for the strength to not do what I want to do right now because if I look up and see—I need a minute, Hachi.”

“A minute for what?”

“To convince my entire nervous system that we’re doing this properly and not like—”

“Animals in a mechanic bay?”

“Shut up.”

You grin. Full. Wide. The kind of grin you never let anyone see because it’s not controlled or measured or Hayashi-appropriate—it’s just happy.

Genuinely, stupidly happy because there’s a beautiful man crouched on a concrete floor having a crisis over your chest and for some reason that feels better than winning the race did.

His hands lower from his face. Just enough that his eyes appear above his fingertips. He glances up at you—one look, fast, like testing whether the sun’s still blinding—and immediately presses his hands back over his eyes.

“Yep,” he says. “Still there. Still in the bra. Cool cool cool.”

“They’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m aware. That’s the problem.” He swallows. You watch his throat bob above his pressed-together hands. “Hachi.”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to know that I am a respectful man.”

“You’re on the floor.”

“I’m a respectful man who is on the floor, yes.” A breath. “Both things are true.”

“Uh huh.”

“But I need you to also know—” His hands drop from his face. His eyes find yours. And whatever prayer he just said, it didn’t work, because the look in them is nothing close to holy. “—that if I don’t put my mouth on them in the next thirty seconds I think I might actually lose my mind.”

Your stomach free-falls.

“Okay. Get up.”

“I don’t think my legs work.”

“Jaque.”

“They genuinely might not—”

You push your boobs up and he rises immediately, like a moth drawn to a flame.

“Below the collar,” he says. More to himself than to you. A reminder. A rulebook. “Below the collar. Below the collar.”

“Mhm.”

“Okay.” He exhales. Shaky. His hands come up—hover near your waist without touching. “Okay. Can I—”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t finish asking.”

“The answer’s yes.”

His palms land on your waist. Warm. Slightly trembling.

They slide up.

Slowly. Over your ribs, over the edges of the bra’s band, fingertips tracing the lace where it meets skin. He follows the scalloped trim along the underside of the cup. Careful. Almost reverent.

Like he’s handling a component he’s never worked with before and doesn’t want to fuck up.

“Hachi,” he breathes.

“Yeah?”

“These—” His thumbs brush the swell above the cups. Just the top edges, where skin meets lace. “—these are insane.”

“They’re just boobs.”

“They’re not just anything.” He sounds personally insulted. “Don’t disrespect them like that ever again in front of me.”

“Are you seriously defending my boobs to me?”

“Someone has to. You clearly don’t appreciate them enough.”

“I live with them, Jaque. I appreciate them plenty.”

“You don’t.” His thumbs trace the lace edge again. “Trust me. You don’t appreciate them the way I’m about to.”

His eyes lift from your chest to your face. Dark. Focused. The theatrics draining away and something steadier replacing them—that locked-in concentration you’ve only seen when he races.

When he’s done calculating and he’s about to execute.

“Below the collar, right?” he asks.

“Right.”

“So…” His finger hooks under one bra strap. Draws it down your shoulder, one centimeter at a time. “…everything under here is mine.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“For tonight,” you correct.

Because boundaries. Because rules. Because you’re still you even with his hands on your skin and his breath on your collarbone.

He smiles. Slow.

“For tonight,” he agrees.

Then his mouth lowers to the top of your breast—right above the lace edge, right where the swell begins—and he presses his lips there. Open. Warm. The tip of his tongue tracing the line where fabric meets skin.

Your hand flies to the back of his head.

And the sound you make—quiet, involuntary, this soft ’ah’ that slips through your teeth—makes him groan against your skin like you’ve mounted him.

“Perfecta,” he murmurs into your chest. “Sos perfecta, Hachi. Sos—dios—” (Perfect. You’re perfect, Hachi. You’re—god—)

Spanish again. Vibrating against the swell of your breast.

You don’t need the translation.

Your legs wrap around his waist on reflex and your ass lands on the hood of the AE86 again. Harder this time. The metal groans under the impact and you feel the suspension compress a fraction beneath you.

His mouth is already on you, lips pressing open and hot against the top of your breast before your back even fully hits the hood. The left one. Right above the lace. Tongue tracing the swell, following the curve where flesh meets fabric, and the sound you make is something between a gasp and a curse.

"Déjame—" he murmurs against your skin. The words vibrate through your sternum. "Déjame que te lo haga bien, sí?" (Let me—let me do it to you right, yeah?)

You don't understand the words but you understand the tone. Low. Almost pleading. Like he's asking permission and making a promise at the same time.

Your hand finds the back of his head. Threads into his hair.

Yes. Yes. Whatever you're asking, yes.

He presses another kiss into the swell. Then another, lower, where the lace starts. His lips catch the edge of the fabric, pull it down a fraction with his teeth before releasing.

A tease. A warning shot.

Then he leans back.

Just—stops. Plants his hands on the hood beside your hips and looks at you.

Spread on your car's hood. Hair messy. Lips swollen from kissing.

At your chest. In that white lacey bra.

"Fuck," he says.

You wait.

"Fuck, man."

More waiting.

"This is—" He gestures. At you. At the bra. At the general concept of what's happening. His hand drops. Comes back up. Drops again. "—fuck."

"You said that."

"I'm gonna keep saying it." His voice is shot. Gravel and smoke and not enough oxygen. "Because—how are you—what is—" He shakes his head once. Hard. Like he's trying to reset a screen. "—fuck."

You've never rendered someone monosyllabic before.

It's doing things to your ego that probably aren't healthy.

His hand hooks his finger under the left strap. Draws it off your shoulder the same way he did earlier—lace sliding down your arm inch by inch.

Both straps down now. The bra's staying up through architecture alone—the cups doing their job, the band holding, but the structural integrity is compromised and you can feel it. Feel the looseness. Feel the way one deep breath would shift everything.

He pauses. His exhale comes out shaky. You can hear the tremor in it. See the way his chest stutters on the release, like his lungs forgot the sequence.

"Hachi," he says.

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna take this off now."

"Okay."

"And I need you to understand that whatever happens to my face when I do—that's involuntary. I have zero control over it. None. Just—have mercy."

The laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. "You're being very dramatic about a bra."

"You don't know what's under it."

"I literally live with what's under it."

"Exactly. You're desensitized. I'm not. I am the opposite of desensitized. I am sensitized. I am maximum sensitivity." His hands come back to your ribs. Fingertips finding the clasp at the back. "Ready?"

"Are you?"

"Absolutely not."

The clasp gives.

The tension releases. You feel it—the band loosening, the cups shifting, the structure that held everything in place surrendering its job.

He doesn't pull it off. Lets gravity do the work. The lace slides forward, caught for a second on your nipples—which are hard, because of course they are, because the air is cold and his hands are warm and every nerve in your body has been live-wired since the mountain—and then falls into your lap.

And you're bare.

The bay's ambient light hits your chest. Warm yellow glow on bare skin. On the full, heavy curve of breasts that you've spent your entire life covering, minimizing, apologizing for in every room full of men who looked before they listened.

Jimin doesn't make a sound.

His hands hover six inches from your skin, fingers slightly curled, palms open. Like he's warming himself at a fire he can't believe is real.

Then—quiet, almost to himself:

“Perfectas.” (Perfect [plural — referring to her breasts].)

The word comes out reverent. Broken at the seam. Merely said like a reflex. Like the sight of your bare breasts knocked a word out of him that he didn't choose and couldn't stop.

Both palms finally cup you from underneath, fingers spread, and the contact—his warm, calloused palms against the soft underside of your breasts—makes your breath hitch sharp enough to hear.

He holds you like you're something he pulled from a wreck and can't believe survived. Feeling the weight. Not squeezing, not kneading—just holding. Learning the shape, the temperature, the give of flesh against his hands.

"They're heavy," he says, like he’s dazed.

"Yeah." Your voice is thinner than you want it to be. "I know."

"No—that's not—I mean—" He shakes his head. His thumbs stroke along the curves. "I mean they're heavy. Like—they fill my whole hand. My whole hand, Hachi."

"Is that a complaint?"

"That's the furthest thing from a complaint that has ever existed in any language I speak." His thumbs follow the curve toward the center, toward the darker skin around your nipples. "I don't have words. In any of my nine languages. There are no words for this."

"You seem to be finding plenty."

"These are just sounds. My brain left."

His thumbs reach your areolas. Circle the edges. Not touching the nipple yet—orbiting. Mapping the perimeter.

Your nipples are so hard it's almost painful, tight peaks straining toward his hands, and he's right there and he won't—

"Jaque—"

"Shh." His eyes are fixed on his own hands. On your chest. He's watching his thumbs trace circles around your nipples like it's the most important engineering work he's ever done. "Shh. Let me—just let me—"

His thumb brushes your left nipple.

Finally.

The lightest touch—just the pad of his thumb dragging across the peaked skin—and the jolt that goes through you is completely disproportionate.

Your hand grabs his wrist. A sound escapes your mouth that you'd be embarrassed about if you could hear yourself over the rush of blood in your ears.

"Oh," he says softly. "Oh, you liked that."

You can't answer because he does it again. Same thumb. Same nipple. A slow, firm stroke that flattens the peak and releases it, and the nerve endings there light up like someone hit a switch connected to your entire central nervous system.

"Liked it a lot," he murmurs.

His other thumb mirrors the motion on the right. Simultaneous. Both nipples. Slow, synchronized strokes that make you want to bite your own hand.

"Nnh—fuck—"

“Tan sensible.” (So sensitive.)

He rolls both nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Gentle. Experimental. Testing the pressure, adjusting when you gasp, recalibrating when you moan. Mechanic's hands. Tuner's instincts. Reading feedback and responding in real time.

"You're so sensitive, Hachi. Right here, look at you—"

"Don't—ngh—don't narrate—"

"Why not?" He tugs gently. The sensation arrows straight down your body, landing between your legs like a current. "You were pretty chatty five minutes ago. All that ’me dan ganas’ talk."

"That was—ah—different—"

"Mhm."

He pinches. Light but precise.

You jolt.

"Different how?"

"I was wearing a shirt—"

"True. Terrible oversight. Should've taken it off earlier."

He releases your nipples. Cups you again—full palms, full weight—and squeezes. Not hard. Just enough to feel the give, to let the flesh spill between his fingers, to watch the way your breasts fill his hands and overflow them.

"I could do this forever," he says. Not to you. To your chest. Having a private conversation with your tits that you're not invited to. "Like—forever, Hachi. I would happily never do anything else again."

"You have to race."

"I would quit."

"No you wouldn't."

"I would quit racing." He looks up. Dead serious. "I would sell the R34, sell the Mustang, sell my kidneys, live under a bridge, and be completely at peace with all of it if it meant unlimited access to—" He looks back down. Squeezes again. "—these."

"You're unhinged."

"Your nipples are hard and your breathing's fucked up and you're calling me unhinged?"

Fair point.

His mouth lowers toward your left breast, lips parting, that focused intensity zeroing in on the nipple his thumb's been circling.

But he doesn't go straight for it.

Of course he doesn't.

Because Park Jimin is incapable of doing anything without making you wait for it first.

He kisses the inner curve. Soft. Lips dragging across skin, following the same path his thumb traced.

The contrast between his rough hands and his soft mouth makes you shiver—you can feel both, his palm still cupping the right breast while his lips worship the left.

Then his tongue comes out.

A flat, broad stroke from the underside of your breast to the top edge of your areola. Slow enough that you feel every millimeter. Wet enough that the air hits the trail he leaves and makes you shudder.

"Oh—"

He does it again. Same stroke. Same devastating pace. Tongue painting a line from the lower curve to the edge—but not the center, not the nipple, not where every nerve in your body is screaming at him to go.

"Jaque, if you don't—"

"If I don't what?" he says as he looks up at you through his lashes.

His mouth is still on your breas and still not where you want it. His lips are shiny. Eyes black. That cocky, infuriating ghost of a smile curving against your skin.

"Ask nice."

"I don't ask nice."

"Then I don't go where you want."

"You're insufferable—"

"And you're impatient."

His tongue traces the outer edge of your areola. Close. So close. The tip brushing the boundary of the darker skin without crossing it.

"Thought you were all about precision, Hachi. Careful technique. Reading the car. Savoring."

"That's for racing—"

"Same principles apply." He blows gently across the wet skin.

Your whole body clenches.

"I hate you," you whisper.

"Mmm. Try again."

Your fingers tighten in his hair. Pull. Not gently.

His groan vibrates against your breast.

"Please."

His mouth seals over your nipple.

The heat—the wet, sudden, encompassing heat—makes your vision white out for a full second. Your back arches hard, shoulders pressing into the hood, and the sound you make isn't a moan. It's closer to a sob. This raw, pulled-from-somewhere-deep thing that bounces off the bay walls and comes back unrecognizable.

He sucks. Gentle at first—just pressure, just warmth, his tongue flicking the peak while his lips hold the seal. Testing. Gauging your response the way he gauges tire grip—body feedback, micro-adjustment, finding the exact combination that makes you fall apart.

He finds it fast.

A rhythm. Suck, flick, release. Suck, flick, hold.

His free hand still cupping the right breast, thumb working the nipple in tandem, and the dual stimulation sends something cascading down your spine that has no name—just heat and pressure and a coiling in your lower stomach that feels dangerously, dangerously close to what happened in that twin bed.

"Fuck—Jimin—"

His name. His real name. And the effect is immediate—he sucks harder, moans against your breast, and his hips press forward between your legs in a reflexive thrust that grinds the hard ridge of him against you and—

"Oh—god—don't stop—"

He pulls off your nipple with a wet sound that makes your toes curl. Switches. His mouth finds the right one—tongue circling once, twice, then sealing over the peak—and his hand takes over on the left, cupping the spit-slick breast, thumb spreading the wetness, squeezing.

You're—

This is—

Your hips are moving, grinding against him in these small, involuntary rolls that you can't control and don't want to. Your hands are in his hair, gripping too hard probably, and your legs are locked around his hips pulling him closer and every time he sucks your inner walls clench around nothing and you're wet—you're really wet, you can feel it.

"Te gusta, Hachi?" he mumbles around your nipple. The vibration of his voice against the sensitive skin makes your thigh muscles shake. "Tell me you like it. Decime." (You like it, Hachi? Tell me.)

"I—nnh—"

"En serio." He pulls back just enough to speak and his lips brush the wet peak with every word. "Tell me. I wanna hear you say it." (Seriously)

"I like it," you breathe. "Fuck—I like it—"

"Good girl."

Your hips buck against him. Hard. His breath catches, his rhythm stutters, and for a second you're both just—pressed together, grinding, gasping, his mouth still on your breast and his hands full of you and the bay is quiet except for the sounds you're making which are not quiet at all.

He bites the swell of your left breast, the soft, full flesh above the nipple—sinking his teeth into the curve with a pressure that walks the exact line between pain and pleasure.

When he releases, there's a perfect crescent of indentations already flushing pink against your skin.

He looks at it.

Smiles.

Bites the other one. Same spot. Mirror image. Like he's signing his work.

"You're a freak," you manage. Your voice comes out thin. Breathless. Nothing like the woman who runs Daikoku. "How am I supposed to explain these to my fiancé?"

He doesn’t seem bothered by the reminder, ust shifts his mouth to a new patch of skin—the inner swell, where your breasts press together when you're dressed—and speaks against it.

"Don't let him see you naked." Simple. Flat. Like he's troubleshooting a mechanical problem, not addressing the fact that he's marking another man's fiancée in a parking lot. "What do I care."

And bites again.

Harder this time. Lower. Right where the curve of your breast meets your ribcage, soft tissue compressing under his teeth, and the sound that comes out of your mouth is not a protest.

His right hand leaves your breast.

You feel the loss of warmth immediately—but you don't have time to register the absence because his hand is traveling down. Along your ribs. Your waist. Your hip. The waistband of your leather pants.

His fingers find the zipper. The metal teeth part slowly.

His mouth comes back up. Finds yours. And this kiss is different from the ones before—slower, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours with a deliberation that contradicts the urgency in his hands. A kiss that's building a case.

He pulls back. Foreheads together. Breathing hard.

"Hachi."

"Hm."

His jaw works. You watch the muscle flex, watch him swallow, watch whatever he's about to say arrange itself into something he can get through without breaking.

"I have condoms."

Oh.

"Okay."

"On me. Right now."

"Okay."

"But I need—"

He stops. Breathes.

His hand is still at your waistband, fingers hooked inside the loosened leather, motionless.

Waiting.

"—I need you to tell me. Out loud. Because I'm—" Another breath. Harder. "—my control is not great right now, Hachi. It's really not great. And if you don't want to go further, I need to know now because in about thirty seconds I'm not going to be able to—"

"Jimin."

He stops mid-sentence.

Your hand finds his jaw. Tilts his face so he's looking directly at you. Into you. Past every wall and every deflection and every sharp line of banter you've been hiding behind since the first night he climbed through his own window.

"Stop treating me like I'm gonna break."

His throat bobs.

"I'm not a scaredy-cat." Your thumb traces his cheekbone. "I drove a car sideways through a gap at 80 tonight. I crushed a lollipop in front of the Tanaka twins and told them to kneel. I walked into this bay knowing exactly what was going to happen."

You hold his gaze.

"I'm here because I want to be here. I want you."

His breathing fractures.

"So yes." You bring your mouth to his, close so that the words land on his lips like a kiss that hasn't started yet. "I want you to fuck me, Jimin."

The sound he makes is torn from somewhere so deep it doesn’t have language attached to it—just vibration and need and the last thread of restraint finally, finally snapping.

His hand fists the leather at your waistband and pulls.

Leather doesn't cooperate. It never does. The material clings to your thighs, peeling slowly, requiring the kind of negotiation that would kill the mood if either of you cared about mood.

But you don't.

You lift your hips off the hood—bracing your palms against the cold metal—and he pulls, and together you shimmy the leather down past your thighs, your knees, your calves.

He yanks them along with your sneakers. Tosses them—somewhere. Behind him. Doesn't look where they land.

Then he reaches back.

One hand. To his back pocket. And pulls out a condom.

Not fumbling for it. Not digging around. He knew exactly which pocket, exactly where it was. The foil packet sits between his index and middle finger.

"Always carry those?" you ask.

"Since last week? Yeah." He doesn't miss a beat. "You texted me about your knees itching and my dick hitting your throat. I started carrying two."

"Two."

"Optimistic."

Despite everything—despite the fact that you're sitting on the hood of your AE86 in nothing but your underwear, chest bare, his bite marks blooming across your skin, his hard-on visible through his jeans—you laugh.

Short. Surprised out of you.

He grins. That stupid, incandescent, completely disarming grin that makes him look younger.

He sets the condom on the hood beside your hip. Within reach. Then his hands come to the hem of his own shirt.

He pulls it off in one motion. Over his head. Arms crossing, fabric peeling, and then it's gone and he's standing in front of you bare-chested in a mechanic bay and—

You've seen him shirtless before. That night in his room when he was changing and you caught a flash of his back. But that was a glimpse. Dark room. Quick.

This isn't quick.

This is every tattoo you've only heard rumors about spread across a canvas of tan skin and lean muscle. The racing stripe down his spine. The Vitruvian man across his shoulder blade, but different—modified with a tachometer halo. Spanish text you can't read winding through Buenos Aires street grids. Something in Japanese on his ribs. Cherry blossoms and a torii gate across his right shoulder, and below it—

A scar.

Across his ribcage on the left side. Long, healed, ridged.

Your fingers reach for it before you think.

He catches your wrist. Gentle.

"Later," he says. Not shutting it down. Just—redirecting. 

That's a conversation. Not now.

You nod.

His hands go to his jeans. Button. Zipper. The denim loosening around his hips and you see the V-lines you traced with your fingers earlier now in full—defined, disappearing below the waistband of black boxer briefs that are doing absolutely nothing to conceal how hard he is.

Your mouth goes dry.

He catches you looking. Of course he does.

"See something you like, Hachi?"

"Shut up and get over here."

His grin sharpens. He steps forward. Between your knees. Hands finding the tops of your thighs, palms warm and calloused, and the skin-on-skin contact—his bare torso against your bare chest—sends a current through you that makes your abs clench.

Your breasts press against his chest. Nipples still sensitized from his mouth, from his tongue, from the attention he's been lavishing on them for the past however-many minutes. The friction of his skin against yours—warm, slightly rough with hair—is a different sensation entirely. Less targeted. More encompassing. A full-body contact that makes you want to climb into him.

His forehead drops to yours.

"You're shivering," he murmurs.

"I'm not cold."

"I know."

His hand slips between your bodies. Travels south. Over your stomach—the muscles jumping at his touch, every nerve you own apparently now hardwired to respond to his fingers on autopilot. Over the waistband of your underwear. And he presses his palm flat against your clit through the fabric.

The sound you make is not subtle.

It's a gasp that cracks open into something longer and more desperate, your hips rolling up into his hand, and the pressure of his palm against your clit—even through cotton—sends a shockwave of sensation that makes your vision blur at the edges.

"God—" Your hand grabs his wrist. Not to stop him. To keep him there. "—right there—right there—"

"I know." His fingers press firmer. Feeling you through the fabric. "Fuck—Hachi, you're soaked."

Heat floods your face.

Because you are. You can feel it—the wetness that's been building since he started speaking Spanish, since the mountain, since his mouth found your breast.

The cotton between his hand and your skin is damp and getting worse with every roll of your hips.

"You—" He makes a guttural sound.

His fingers shift, exploring through fabric, finding the shape of you, and when his middle finger drags along your slit through wet cotton you hear him exhale like he's been punched.

"You're so responsive. I barely touched you and you're—mierda—"

He doesn't know.

Doesn't know that before him, responsive wasn't a word that applied.

He doesn't know that his thumb through pajama pants four days ago was the first time you had an orgasm in your life.

And now his hand is between your legs and you're soaked and every nerve ending is firing and your hips are grinding into his palm without your permission because your body learned something new that night in his twin bed and it's been starving for more ever since.

"You're so sensitive," he says, almost to himself.

His fingers tracing your folds through the cotton, mapping what he can feel.

"Right here—" His finger brushes across the spot where the Christina piercing sits and you jolt. "—fuck, right here, every time I touch it you—"

"It's—nnh—the piercing—"

"I know." He presses his thumb there. Holds it. Feels the metal bar through the fabric. "I know, Hachi. I remember."

He remembers.

Of course he remembers. He's a mechanic. He found the modification and he's been thinking about it ever since—where it sits, what it does, how it makes you react.

He's probably been lying awake at night reverse-engineering the optimal way to use it against you.

His thumb circles.

Slow. Over the piercing.

Your hand fists in his hair, and the sound you make has no consonants in it—just this open, vowel-heavy thing that bounces off the walls.

"That's it," he breathes against your mouth. "That's the sound. That's the one."

"Jimin—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He peels the underwear off. No ceremony. Just hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags them down, and the cold air hits slick skin and your thighs press together on instinct before his hands guide them apart again.

"No." Gentle but firm. His palms on your inner thighs, pressing outward. "Don't hide. Not from me."

You let him look.

You let Park Jimin stand between your spread knees in a mechanic bay at 1 AM and look at you—bare, wet, every part of your body exposed below the collarbone where his bite marks end and Rei's ignorance begins.

His thumb traces your hip bone. Down. Following the crease of your thigh. Close but not touching where you need him to.

"Beautiful," he says. Not performing. Not trying to be smooth. Just stating a fact in the same tone he uses to describe engine specs. "You're—every part of you is—"

His voice breaks off.

He picks up the condom.

Tears the foil with his teeth. One quick rip.

And your heart rate doubles. Because this is it. This is the line. Everything before was prologue—the texting, the offer, the twin bed, the mountain, the Spanish, the bites and the grinding and the ’me-dan-ganas.’

This is the part where it becomes real.

He pushes his boxers down. His cock springs free and your brain registers several things at once: the length, the slight upward curve, the way it twitches when the cold air hits it, the fact that he's thick enough that the logistics portion of your brain—the part that calculates clearances and tolerances for a living—immediately starts running numbers.

He rolls the condom on.

Then he looks at you.

"Last chance," he says quietly.

"If you ask me one more time I'm going to punch you harder than you punched Shinji."

His laugh is surprised out of him. Real. It crinkles his eyes and shows his teeth and makes him look like the boy who gives his brothers the bigger bedrooms and sends money home after every race.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

He steps closer.

His hands find your hips. Adjust you on the hood—shifting your ass to the edge, tilting your pelvis, and you recognize what he's doing because it's the same thing you do with cars.

Finding the angle. Optimizing the approach. Making sure everything lines up before the throttle drops.

You feel the head of his cock press against your entrance. Just pressure. Just there. Warm through the latex.

Your body pulses around nothing, clenching, wanting, and you hear yourself inhale sharp through your nose.

His forehead meets yours.

"Ready?" he murmurs.

"Jimin."

"Yeah?"

"_Put it in"

His exhale shakes against your mouth.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, okay—”

He pushes in, inch by inch, the stretch of him filling you in a way that makes your mouth fall open and your nails find his shoulders and your brain go completely, catastrophically blank.

Because—

Oh.

Oh, that’s—

You’ve had sex before. You’ve had sex plenty of times. With Rei, in nice beds with nice sheets, and it was fine. It was always fine. Comfortable. Familiar.

This isn’t that.

This is your legs tightening around his hips, pulling him deeper because your body wants more before your brain has finished processing enough.

He bottoms out.

Stills.

His forehead drops against yours. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your lips. His arms are shaking where they brace against the hood—that same tremor from before, except now he’s inside you and you can feel it everywhere.

“Tight,” he manages. “Hachi—you’re—fuck—”

You clench around him. Not on purpose. Involuntary. Your walls fluttering in these small, rhythmic contractions that you can’t control and didn’t know your body did.

His hips jerk. Forward. Half an inch deeper that shouldn’t be possible and a sound punches out of your chest—

“Ah—”

High. Thin. Needy in a way that makes your face burn because who made that noise. That wasn’t you. You don’t make noises like that. You’ve never made noises like that in your life. With Rei you were quiet. Controlled. Occasionally a soft exhale or a practiced moan timed to his rhythm because that’s what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it? Make the right sounds at the right times. Perform.

This isn’t performing.

This is your body making sounds without your permission because Park Jimin is inside you and your nervous system has apparently been asleep for years and just woke up screaming.

He starts to move, slow at first. Long pulls that drag the length of him against your walls—out until just the tip remains, then back in, deep, bottoming out with a controlled roll of his hips that makes the 86’s suspension creak beneath you.

“You feel—” His voice is wrecked. Shattered at the seams. “—Hachi, you feel increíble—”

He thrusts again. Deeper. The angle shifts and the head of his cock drags against something inside you that makes your legs lock tight around his waist.

“Oh—oh god—”

Too loud. Way too loud.

Your hand flies to your own mouth—

He catches your wrist. Pulls it away.

“Don’t.” His eyes find yours. Dark, focused, that laser-lock intensity he gets behind the wheel. “I told you. I want to hear you.”

“I’m being—nnh—loud—”

“Good.” He thrusts. “Be loud.”

“People will—ah—”

“Nobody’s coming back here, Hachi.”

Another thrust. Harder. Your back slides against the hood and he pulls you back by the hips, flush against him.

“And even if they did—” His mouth finds your ear. “—you’d still be making those sounds. Porque me encantan.” (Because I love them.)

The Spanish in your ear while he’s inside you short-circuits something fundamental in your wiring.

A whimper escapes. Actual whimper.

One of those sounds you’ve mocked in movies, that you thought was exaggerated, the kind that’s apparently just what happens when someone fucks you right for the first time in your life.

Your face burns.

Not from arousal—from embarrassment.

Because you sound desperate. You sound needy.

You sound like everything you’ve spent all your life proving you’re not—the soft girl, the fragile girl, the type of girl who would fall apart when a man touched her right.

You immediately yank him down, both hands fisting in his hair, pulling him forward until his face is buried against your shoulder and yours is buried against his.

Your nose pressed into the junction of his neck and collarbone where he smells like hinoki and sweat and sex, and your mouth is muffled against his skin so the sounds you can’t stop making at least go somewhere that isn’t the open air of the mechanic bay.

He adjusts. Doesn’t question it. Just shifts his weight, plants one hand on the hood by your head, and keeps moving—keeps fucking you with those slow, devastating strokes that somehow hit deeper at this angle.

“Ahí—ahí te gusta, ¿no?” (That’s where you like it, huh?) he murmurs against your shoulder. You feel his lips move against your skin with each word. “Right here? This angle?”

You nod against his neck. Can’t speak. Don’t trust what would come out if you tried.

“Mhm.”

He does it again. Same stroke, same depth, same spot. Your walls clamp down on him and his breath catches.

“Yeah. Right there. Te vuelve loca, ¿verdad?” (Makes you crazy, right?)

You whimper against his throat. Sink your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder to muffle it.

“Ngh—” His hips stutter. “—do that—do that again, nena, mordeme—” (bite me)

You bite harder. His groan vibrates through his chest into yours. His pace picks up—not faster, just firmer.

Your heels dig into the small of his back, sneakers pressing into the muscle above his ass, locking him close, keeping him deep.

Because every time he pulls back you feel the loss like a physical ache and your body says ’no, more, closer, stay.’

“Mírate,” (Look at you) he breathes against your hair. “So greedy, Hachi. Pulling me in with your legs like you can’t get enough—”

“Shut—ah—shut up—”

“¿Por qué? (Why?) If you could hear yourself right now—the little noises you make when I go deep—” He punctuates it with a thrust that drives the air from your lungs. “—esos ruiditos, nena. Me vuelven loco.” (Those little noises, nena. They make me crazy.)

You don’t understand the words. Don’t need to. The stupid Spanish is doing something to you that transcends translation.

“You’re close,” he says. Not a question.

And the terrifying thing is he’s right.

You’re close. Already. Embarrassingly, devastatingly close. The coil that’s been building since his mouth was on your breasts—since the mountain, since the Spanish rant, since four days ago in his twin bed—is wound so tight now that each thrust sends tremors through your thighs and your stomach muscles are clenching in rhythmic pulses that you can’t stop.

His hand finds your thigh. Grips it. Angles you just so—tilting your hips an extra degree that puts pressure on the front wall and the piercing simultaneously and—

“Ngh—fuck!—”

Your legs lock around him so hard your calves cramp. And the sound you make—this raw, cracked, open-throated thing—fills the mechanic bay and echoes back at you like evidence of a person you don’t recognize.

“That’s it—” His voice is strained. Marveling. “Come on, Hachi—come on—dale, dale—”

“I can’t—I’m going to—Jimin—”

“Sí—sí, así—say my name when you cum—decí mi nombre—”

The coil snaps.

Not the slow build-and-release from the twin bed. This is a crash.

Your whole body seizing, walls clamping down on him in hard, rhythmic contractions that make him curse, your spine arching, your fingers raking lines down his back through bare skin that you distantly know will be there tomorrow.

Your heels drive into his lower back so hard he grinds impossibly deep and holds there while you break apart around him.

“Ji—min—oh god—oh—”

His name in your mouth. Fragmented. Shattering like sugar under a boot heel.

The waves keep coming. One after another, rolling through your body in these full-system pulses that make your toes curl inside your boots and your thighs tremble against his hips.

You’re clenching on him—gripping his cock in spasms that you can feel and he can definitely feel because his breathing’s gone haywire against your shoulder.

“Mierda—Hachi—you’re—fuck—”

He thrusts slowly to help you ride it out while your body squeezes and releases and squeezes again around him and the aftershocks ripple through you in diminishing waves that leave you boneless against the hood.

Your arms are still around his neck. Trembling.

Your face is still pressed into his shoulder.

You’re not ready to come out yet.

Because if you look at him right now—if you see whatever expression is on his face—you might have to acknowledge what just happened.

That you came in maybe four minutes of penetrative sex after more than two decades of assuming your body didn’t work that way.

His hand comes up. Cups the back of your head. Holds you against him.

“Holy shit,” he says into your hair. Quiet. Almost awed. “That was—Hachi, that was fast.”

Your face burns hotter.

“I’ve never—”

He pulls back slightly. You tighten your arms.

“—gotten anyone there that quick before.”

‘Because nobody’s ever gotten me there at all,’ you don’t say.

“Not that I’m complaining.” You can hear the grin forming. Can hear the ego inflating in real time. “That’s—I mean—that’s gotta be some kind of record, right?”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t.”

“Four minutes, Hachi. Maybe less. I didn’t even get to—”

“If you finish that sentence I will murder you.”

He laughs. Warm. Against your hair. The sound rumbling through his chest into yours, and your over-sensitized body responds to even that—the vibration making you clench around him, still inside you, still hard.

His breath hitches.

“Okay,” he says. Steadier. His hand strokes your hair once. “Okay. But I’m—I need you to know that my ego just grew about six sizes and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

You bite his shoulder again. Gentler this time. A reprimand.

He hisses. Grins against your temple.

Swallows. You hear it—the thick, dry click of his throat working, the effort of it. Like he’s swallowing down everything his body wants to do and replacing it with something slower.

His hips shift. Start moving again.

Different now.

He’s not chasing your orgasm anymore.

He’s chasing his.

And the difference is something you feel in your spine.

Because when he was focused on you, every stroke was a question—’here? like this? is that good?’ Now each thrust is a statement. Selfish in a way that should make you feel used but instead makes your stomach drop, because there’s something unbearably hot about Park Jimin losing the choreography and just taking.

But then he slows. Just barely.

“Can I—” A breath. His hips grind forward, slow, deep, and the groan he makes is bitten off at the end. “—Hachi, can I go harder?”

You nod. Sheepish. Small. Arms tightening around his neck, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him closer because the embarrassment of wanting this is somehow easier when there's less space between you and him.

He reads the nod.

He goes harder.

And harder is—fuck, harder is a whole different animal. The first thrust at the new pace drives you back against the hood a full inch before his palm catches your hip and hauls you flush again. Deeper. Your breath leaves you on a sound that's more air than syllable.

You bury your face harder into his shoulder.

Nose pressed into the curve where his neck meets collarbone, mouth hidden against the heat of his skin, breasts mashed flush to his bare chest—soft into hard, the slide of sweat between you making everything slick.

You can feel his heartbeat hammering against yours.

Two engines out of sync.

His pace stutters. He lifts his head.

"Huh?"

Just that. Soft. The sound of him noticing.

"Hachi."

You shake your head against his shoulder.

"You going shy on me?"

You shake it harder. His laugh is breathless, broken in the middle by his own hips driving forward, by the grunt it punches out of him.

"You are." His hand slides up your spine, warm palm flat between your shoulder blades. "Nah, nah, nah. Where'd all that attitude go, huh? Five minutes ago you were—mmh—running your mouth at me. Me dan ganas, poor baby—now what?"

"Sh—shut up—"

"Ah, so that’s how you wanna do it."

He thrusts deeper. The angle tilts and that same thin high thing keeps slipping out of your throat without permission, and you make a sound of pure mortification against his neck, teeth catching his skin.

His hips jerk. Sharp. Out of rhythm.

"Puta madre—" (Motherfucker—)

His forehead drops to your temple. Breathing hard into your hair.

"Don't do that. Don't—Hachi, don't bite me and make that noise at the same time, I'm gonna—" A shaky exhale. "—lose the fucking plot. I swear to god."

You whimper. You don't mean to. It just—happens. Leaks out of you when he bottoms out and grinds, and the sound is small and high and needy in a way that lights your face on fire because you have never in your life made a noise like that.

Not once.

Not with anyone.

And now you've made it three times in the last minute and you can't stop.

"Fuck—" His voice drops. Ragged. "—okay, okay, okay—that sound, Hachi, Jesus Christ—"

He thrusts harder.

You whimper again. Higher.

"Mierda—again, otra vez, do that again for me—"

"I'm not—" Cracked. Muffled against his shoulder. "—I'm not doing anything—"

"Escuchate, (listen to yourself,) all these little—mmh—these little noises in the back of your throat—cada uno, (every one,) Hachi—"

His hand slides down, grabs your ass, angles you against his next thrust.

You burn hotter and press your face harder into his shoulder and your heels dig into his lower back, like if you just stay hidden, just keep him deep, just muffle everything against him, this new traitorous body of yours won't give you away.

"Hachi." He's panting. "Hachi, lean back—lemme—"

You shake your head.

"C'mon. Lemme see you."

"No."

"No?" A laugh. Incredulous. Ruined. "You telling me no right now? Squeezing me like this and telling me no?"

"Jimin."

The way his name cracks out of you—strangled, begging—does something to him.

His rhythm falters.

A groan sinks into your hair.

"Okay—okay—" His hand comes up, cups the back of your head, gentle in a way that doesn't match the rest of him. "Okay, mami. Shh. C'mere. Hang on."

He leans back just enough to get a hand between you, the other arm locked around your waist. He doesn't stop moving—keeps those slow, deep rolls of his hips going while he drags his thumb across the corner of your mouth.

"Open."

You blink at him.

Pupils blown. Mouth red. Hair falling in his eyes, a flush crawling up his throat, and he's looking at you like you hung the sun and made it shine just for him.

"Need something to muffle you, beba?" Thumb pressed gentle on your lower lip. "Open up. Chupá." (Suck.)

Oh.

Oh.

Your lips part. You don't decide to. Your body just—does it. His thumb slides into your mouth, warm, tasting like sweat and the salt of his skin, and your tongue meets the pad of it.

His eyes go dark.

"Dios." (God.)

You close your lips around it. Suck. Following the instruction because it gives your mouth something to do that isn't sounds you can't control.

His hips grind deep and hold there and he just—watches your mouth work around his thumb, and the noise that leaves him is pitched so low you feel it more than hear it.

"That's it." His voice has gone rough as asphalt. "Así. That's it, beba. Suck on it for me." (Like that.)

Your eyes flutter.

"Yeah?" A slow, ruined smile. "Tenés algo en la boca, ya no pensás tanto, ¿no?" (Got something in your mouth, can't think so much now, huh?)

You don't catch the words. You catch the tone. Low, indulgent, unbearably pleased. You suck harder around his thumb and whimper—and watch him break.

"Ay hijo de puta—" (Son of a bitch—)

His hips slam forward. Out of rhythm. His head drops back, throat bared, cords standing out.

"You're supposed to be—shh—quiet—" A laugh, winded. "—that's the whole point, beba. Carajo, Hachi, even with my fingers in your mouth you're loud as fuck, you know that? Me tenés re mal, te juro—" (You've got me so bad, I swear—)

He drags his thumb down, tugs your lip, pushes it back in. You suck. Automatic. A small moan vibrates around his knuckle.

"Mmph—" His eyes squeeze shut. "—sí, así—dios mío—" (yes, like that—my god—)

Your hands find his shoulders. Nails digging in. He's leaking—you can feel him twitch inside you, feel how hard he's holding himself, and the pace he was keeping stutters into something desperate.

His free hand drops between you.

Not to get you off. You're too raw for that—your first one is still shimmering through you in little aftershocks, your thighs still trembling, your stomach still fluttering. He knows better than to push you there again.

His fingers find the barbell instead.

The Christina. That small silver thing that lives just above everything else. His thumb presses flat over it—just once, just there—and he makes a sound like he's been reminded of something holy.

"Puta madre—" (motherfucker—) Low. Reverent. "—sigue ahí. (still there.) Hachi. This fucking—"

His voice fractures. He presses his thumb to the metal again. Just feeling it. Just proving to himself it's real, you're real, you're here, his, open around him, mouth full of his other thumb, this small piece of silver flush to your skin.

"No puedo—" (I can't—) "—Hachi, I can't, I'm—"

His rhythm collapses. Sloppy. Deep. Panting, and his thumb has slipped out of your mouth slick and trailing spit down your chin, and his whole body is going taut against yours.

"—me vengo—" (I'm cumming—) Urgent. Ragged. His hand fists in your hair. "—Hachi, beba, I'm—me voy a venir—(I'm gonna cum—) Hachi, c'mere, c'mere—"

His mouth crashes against yours open and wet and sloppy and he moans into you—this long, broken, involuntary sound that pours straight down your throat as his hips stutter and drive deep and stay there. His whole body going tight. Shaking. One hard grinding pulse and then—

"Mmph—ah—Hachi—fuck—"

He's talking into your mouth. Cumming and moaning and you can feel the words vibrate against your tongue in half-syllables and broken Spanish that doesn't connect to Spanish anymore.

"—tan—(so—) puta madre—(motherfucker—) tan linda—(so pretty—) ah, ah—"

His hand tightens in your hair. Hips grind deep. He spurts inside the condom in pulses you can feel, and each one jerks another fractured sound out of him—high, almost whiny, noises of a man who's been holding something back for longer than he'll ever admit.

You kiss him through it, swallowing every wrecked sound, your tongue sliding against his in a mess of spit and groans, his breath stuttering against your lips as the last pulse works through him. He's shaking. Actually shaking. His forehead presses to yours and his mouth doesn't leave yours even when the words stop—just keeps kissing you, sloppy and missing the aim half the time, catching the corner of your mouth, your chin, your lower lip, back to your mouth again.

"Hijo de—" (Son of a—) He laughs against your mouth. Cracked. "—dios mío. (my god.) Hachi. Hachi. Holy fuck—"

You can't speak.

He can't either, apparently, because for a good ten seconds all he does is breathe into your mouth, short ragged pulls of air, his whole body trembling where it's pressed against yours. His chest heaving against yours—your nipples still hard against his sternum, that soft-and-hard contact that made him lose it the first time and is apparently still doing something to him, because his cock twitches weakly inside you and he groans into your mouth like it hurts.

Then he collapses. Not fully—he catches himself. Forearms hitting the hood on either side of your head, body curving over yours like a bridge that just lost structural integrity.

You lie there. Under him. On the hood of your AE86. In the mechanic bay of Daikoku at—you have no idea what time it is. One? Two?

The lot’s probably clearing out by now. The race, the twins, the confrontation—all of it feels like it happened in another lifetime.

His forehead finds the dip between your breasts. Rests there.

Breathes.

You feel each exhale—warm, damp, slowing incrementally as his body comes back to earth. His hand is now on your breast. Palm flat. His thumb making the smallest unconscious stroke against the outer curve.

Your fingers find his hair. Card through it. Gently.

He makes a sound. Not words. Just this soft, humming exhale that vibrates through your sternum.

After a while—seconds? minutes?—he turns his face. Presses his cheek against the inner swell. Eyes closed.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey.”

“I think you broke me.”

“I think you dented my hood.”

His laugh is airless. Barely there. You feel it more than hear it—his chest shaking against your stomach, his breath stuttering.

“Worth it.”

“My mechanic’s going to have questions.”

“Tell him a really heavy guy leaned on it.”

“You’re not that heavy.”

“Tell him a moderately heavy guy leaned on it with extreme enthusiasm.”

You huff, fingers still moving through his hair.

“Hachi.”

“Mm.”

His nose burrows into the crook of your neck. Not kissing. Just—breathing. A long, slow inhale through his nose, like he’s pulling your scent into his lungs and holding it there. Then he exhales, warm and loose against your throat. Content. Almost happy, which is a word you wouldn’t normally associate with Park Jimin but there it is—happy, sated, his body heavy and slack on top of yours.

“So,” he murmurs into your neck. “Guess I should start drafting that marriage proposal, huh?”

You snort, graceless and immediate and you feel his grin spread against your skin before you can take it back.

Because you remember. That morning in his kitchen, standing in his pajama pants with egg mayo on the counter.

«Nah. That comes after actual sex.»

“Told you,” he says, and the smugness is audible. “Told you there’d be actual sex.”

“You didn’t tell me anything. You implied.”

“And I delivered.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. Hair wrecked. Lips bitten. Eyes soft and stupid and pleased with himself in a way that makes you want to kiss him and shove him off the car simultaneously.

“Under-promise, over-deliver. That’s the Jaque guarantee.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You came in four minutes.”

“I will end you—”

He ducks down and bites your tit. Same spot he marked earlier. More of a nip than a bite.

But your body doesn’t know the difference—a sound escapes, and his laugh vibrates against your chest in a way that’s going to haunt you for weeks.

“Knew it,” he says into your skin. “So sensitive.”

He presses one last kiss to the mark.

Then he leans back. Pulls out—careful, slow, that brief wince of separation that you feel in your overstimulated walls—and deals with the condom while you blink at the ceiling and try to remember how your legs work.

Shop rag. Tied off. Tossed toward the trash with an arc that misses by a solid meter.

He doesn’t pick it up. Just stares at where it landed on the concrete.

“I’ll get it later.”

“You absolutely won’t.”

“I absolutely won’t.”

You push yourself up on your elbows. The hood’s warm under your forearms—body heat and friction and the ghost of everything that just happened soaked into the metal. Your AE86 is never going to feel the same again. Every time you rest your hand on this hood you’re going to think about—

Don’t think about it.

He’s pulling his boxers up. Jeans follow. The button takes two attempts because his hands are still slightly unsteady, which you notice and file away as a private victory.

His shirt comes next. Black cotton swallowing the tattoos, the scratches you left on his back, the Buenos Aires street grid and the cherry blossoms and the scar on his ribs.

All of it disappearing under fabric like a secret the world isn’t allowed to see.

He rakes a hand through his hair. Doesn’t fix it. It stays fucked up.

Then he looks at you—still propped on your elbows on the hood, shirtless, bite marks darkening on your tits, hair a disaster, and probably wearing an expression that’s way too open for someone who runs this parking lot.

“Drive you home?” he asks.

Simple. No performance. No innuendo.

You hum. “Sure.”

He nods. Grabs your shirt, panties and pants from the floor, your bra from wherever it migrated to during the proceedings, and holds both out without commentary.

You take them. He turns around—actually turns around, gives you his back while you dress, like this is the part that requires privacy and not the part where he had your nipple between his teeth two minutes ago.

Idiot.

Sweet, stupid idiot.

You clasp the bra. Pull the shirt over your head. The fabric settles against skin that’s still buzzing, still warm, still covered in evidence of him that nobody above the collar will ever see.

The leather pants take effort. They always take effort, but post-sex they take unreasonable effort, and you end up doing that ridiculous shimmy-hop thing that makes you look like a seal trying to climb onto a rock.

He hears the noise. Turns. Watches the last three inches of leather-versus-thigh warfare with an expression of pure delight.

“Need a hand?”

“I need you to stop looking.”

“Not a chance.”

You yank the waistband into place. Zip up. Fix your hair with your fingers because there’s no mirror and it probably doesn’t matter anyway.

He’s already at the bay entrance when you grab your keys. Leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets. Watching you walk toward him.

Not satisfied. Not smug.

Just—looking at you. Like he wants to remember exactly how you look right now, walking toward him through a mechanic bay at whatever-the-fuck AM, in the aftermath of something neither of you has a name for.

You stop in front of him.

“So.”

“So.”

The night air drifts in from the lot. Cold. Carrying the faint smell of rubber and cigarette smoke and the last traces of a crowd that’s long since scattered.

“Same time next week?” he asks. That grin starting at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t push it.”

“That’s not a no.”

“That’s a go home, Jaque.”

“I’m literally offering to drive you.”

“Then drive me. Less talking.”

His grin cracks open. Full. That stupid, incandescent thing that makes him look like a boy instead of the man who just fucked you on the hood of your car.

“Vámonos, entonces.” (Let’s go, then.)

He pushes off the frame. Walks toward the R34. You follow—half a step behind, keys in your hand, the ache between your legs a low, warm reminder of what just happened every time your sneakers hit pavement.

The R34 smells like leather and hinoki and him.

You sink into the passenger seat. The leather’s cold through your clothes. It’ll warm up.

He starts the engine, Skyline settling into a low idle that vibrates through the chassis.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to.

He drives. Through Daikoku’s empty lot, past the shuttered konbini, onto the main road where Tokyo’s nighttime infrastructure takes over—traffic lights cycling for no one, vending machines glowing on empty sidewalks, the occasional taxi cruising the lanes like a shark through shallow water.

Your head rests against the window. Glass cool on your temple. The city scrolling past in streaks of neon and sodium and the soft blue of closed shopfronts.

And you think—quietly, in the private space between your reflection and the glass—

So that’s what it’s supposed to feel like.

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