sheep

Tee waves a careless hand at the half-full pint glass sweating onto the hardwood, steps around the bar to pour himself his usual tequila. You direct your attention back onto the profit records before you, scribbled into fading sheets of a graph paper notebook you’re positive Tee bought at least four years ago, but you track him as he goes about getting a glass, finding the bottle. There’s something more than a well-earned drink keeping his movements slow. Measured.

Tee leans on the bar when he’s gotten the liquor poured, watching silently as you thumb through the cash collected over the course of this week. You can feel his gaze float over your shoulder, honing in on the exit behind you. You almost want to roll your eyes; surely, after six months of employment, he doesn’t think you’re stupid enough to sort his cash with the door unlocked.

The bills hit the bar silently, pinned under Tee’s tattooed fingers as he slides them to you. When you look up, he’s simply watching you. Patient. Calculated. This is where Carmen gets it from, wearing her father’s cool bravado and utilizing it for innocent nights out, one more round at Pinky’s. That’s not what Tee’s asking you for.

You finally bite. “What’s this?”

“Profits,” Tee says simply. “I forgot to include them in the week’s cash.”

You look at the cash. Tee. Back to the cash. You have no misgivings that these aren’t profits made by your hand, or any of the other bartenders. You reach forward, carefully pick the money up– it’s only $470, not much to account for when you stack it beside the bar’s weekly profits that you’ve always felt were a bit…bloated.

“For this week?” you ask after a breath, holding the bills up to the light like you would for anything over a fifty. You can tell by the texture they’re likely not fake, but it’s reflex.

Tee’s mouth twitches. Slight, easy to miss. “Yes. For this week.”

Tee sips his tequila interestedly, watching as you fold the hundreds into your already-sizeable stacks. You add one to Wednesday– Brianna, the daytime girl you rarely see, is known to snag a couple six-packs on her way out without paying. Problem solved. You add two to Friday, break a fifty out of that profit pool and move it to Monday. Friday had been busy, lots of regulars who usually pay in cash. The last one takes some movement, a couple of twenties migrating into your claimed tips for the night, but– it only takes a minute for the money to disappear. Gone.

You’re already scratching away at the graph paper, erasing a seven here, adding a zero here, when you realize Tee is still watching you. Never one to balk, you pop your head up, eyeing him back.

“Sorry about the beer,” you blurt, unsure of what else has captured his interest so thoroughly. Tee only laughs, tapping one ringed finger against the glass of tequila in his hand.

“I find that this is the only thing that makes balancing my books bearable.”

Balancing. Present-tense. Your eyes narrow, only for a brief second, but long enough that you know Tee catches it. The hiccup that you’re now puzzling the volition of. Alright, I’ll play ball.

“Good thing you have me for that, now.” You don’t smile fully when you say it, only letting your mouth curve. Just a bit. You grab your glass and clink it against Tee’s, even when he doesn’t move to toast you. Your heart is heavy in your chest, but slow. Even.

Tee’s eyes flick to the paper beneath your hand, back to your eyes. “You’re good with numbers, it seems.”

“I usually take it over if I stay at a place long enough,” you say by way of guarded explanation. Give a little, learn a little. Tee nods slowly, jaw moving as he considers your answer. You don’t press him, a comfortable, if loaded, silence stretching between the two of you as you scribble your way through the remainder of Tee’s weekly financials. You’re just starting to internally consider if you should care about the origin of that small cash pile when Tee speaks again.

“Have you ever been to a casino?” His tone is light, maybe even playful. You shrug, opt for honesty.

“A few times.”

“Ah.” Tee reaches into his breastpocket, smacks his Rothmans against his palm. When he offers you one, you accept, even as your own Camels sit neglected in your purse. Tee lights your cigarette first, cupping his hand over the igniting tip, then his own. “I didn’t take you for a gambler. What do you play?”

“Blackjack.” You think for a beat, a small smile pulling at your lips. “And I’m not a gambler.”

Tee mirrors your expression, tilting his head. “Not poker?”

“Is that what you play?” you shoot back, tapping your cigarette on the ashtray Tee’s slidden down the bar to be close enough for convenience. He grins outright now, pleased by your willingness to play, it seems.

“I don’t usually play.”

“But when you do?”

Tee nods in admittance. “When I do. Why blackjack?”

“Because I’m good at it,” you say simply. It’s the truth; your first in a line of increasingly terrible boyfriends had coached you on it back in your teenage years in Destin until you could roll with the big kid’s table at boy’s night. How to count cards, how to weigh risk. When to press on the house, and how to tilt the table in your favor. Tee only nods again, slower this time. Like you’ve shown your hand.

“You don’t play poker, though?”

You shake your head, sucking a deep lungful of smoke while you consider your answer. “Poker’s too…social. I like to beat the house one-on-one, not rob some asshole who’s putting his mortgage on the table.”

“Poker is for thrill-seekers,” Tee chuckles.

“Does that apply to you?” You let the smile grow just a pinch.

“The appeal is in the danger,” Tee chuckles, self-aggrandizing, and flicks ash off the tip of his cigarette. His eyes dart towards his notebook, still open on the counter beside your neatly-sorted pile of cash, finding their way back to you. That appraising air is back, less hidden now. “Blackjack carries its own risks, but it is more certain. If you know how to count, of course.”

“I didn’t take you for the poker type.” You change direction, suddenly feeling out of control at the way he’s cat-and-mousing you. Tee accepts this, pouring himself another tequila while he mulls over your comment. When he turns, you’re surprised to see that he’s holding two glasses. You clink them in silence, letting the warmth of the reposado spur you on.

“I wasn’t as smart as you when I was your age,” Tee says, smiling wryly. He thinks for a beat. “I had to learn to appreciate certainty.”

You weigh this, letting it knock around in your head. “I like an element of risk, but poker makes people turn cards personal. You aren’t using your head if your ego’s running the show.”

Tee’s face positively blooms with realization, eyes floating over your features like you’ve said something particularly profound. The attention makes you uncomfortable, the almost paternal pride in the warm lines of his face. It feels like you’ve gotten an answer right on a test you don’t think you should be taking, but you’ve been braced by Don Fulano and what you’re beginning to suspect is a chance to dive headfirst into the ‘overtime’ Tee had mentioned at the race.

“You are smart,” he remarks, like it’s a fact more than a compliment, “in a way most people are not. In a way I sometimes am not.”

You tilt your head, and maybe the tequila hit your empty stomach too hard because you feel your mouth moving. Unwisely, ironically. “You’re a gambler.”

“And you are a magician.”

Your brow furrows, momentarily confused. “What do you mean?”

“You say you’re good at blackjack, no?”

“Yes.” Your pride rises, face warm from the booze. “Very good.”

“I know your type.” Tee points a ringed finger at you, not unfriendly, but defining. “Rare. You make money appear, you make money disappear. You understand where money likes to hide.”

You narrow your eyes, still unsure of what he’s playing at. “I’m good with numbers, yeah.”

“Más, jefecita.” Tee’s eyes are sparkling, hands moving in small gestures as he explains himself. “You feel the money through the cards, speak to it. The house will move to scare you off, but you force the dealer onto your level. You do not need to waste your time stealing from other player’s hands because you know where the power truly lies. It is automatic for these types of people.”

When your frown deepens, Tee taps the pile of cash, raising his eyebrows pointedly, watching you work it out. The muscles of your face loosen, expression falling neutral as your eyes flicker over the work before you, the work you’d just done thoughtlessly. The illegal work you’d just done thoughtlessly. You nod slowly as the realization settles on you with less gravity than it should.

“I’m good with numbers,” you repeat, swallowing thickly, “with money.”

“And you’re not a gambler.” Tee’s mouth twitches. You’re getting it now, says the crinkle at the edge of his eyes. “You are a magician.”

Money laundering has always sounded so big, such a complicated crime crammed into syllables that land on a table like a jail block door slamming shut. You look over your books, the cleanly-altered cash profits for each day that you’d wedged the extra money into. It hadn’t required more than a few minutes of thought, reasonable excuses, plausible deniability. Your gaze drifts back to Tee, and you don’t know which direction he’s going to take this, but you do know he has an office he doesn’t let you go in alone and a .45 in the top right drawer of his desk, so you figure now would be a good time to let him keep leading the conversation.

When Tee realizes that you’ve picked up his drift, he speaks again.

“You said you liked the race,” he says, tone as casual as if he were discussing your newest favorite television show. You blink, only stunned for a second.

“I did,” you reply easily, flicking the long column of ash off of your forgotten cigarette, greedily taking a few puffs back to back.

“Would you like to go back?”

“If Carmen invites me–”

“I am inviting you.” Tee picks up the cash laying on top of his notebook, thumbs through it quick enough to feel the weight but not quick enough to count. That’s your job. He looks over the graph paper, a pleased smile toying at his face when his eyes find you again. “Call it a business trip.”

This starts a series of dominoes falling that changes the course of your life in a way that feels irreparable. The skeletal parts of something resembling permanence does spook the part of you that’s a drifter by nature, but the adrenaline rush is too rich for you to care. The handle, the hold, the figure, the vig, the sheet– Tee walks you through the scaffolding of his betting pool with a focused concentration that’s so very at odds with the chummy, jovial man who collects the bets trackside you almost get whiplash.

Back at the Office, your ‘lessons’ are easier. Betting, racing, collecting– all of it’s borrowed vocabulary that you don’t understand. The numbers you fix are becoming your second language, and you’re growing more fluent by the day. It should probably unnerve you how easily you take to all of this, but instead, all you feel is a growing sense of satisfaction, the welcome pain of claws gripping into you. Tee doesn’t ask you to start making the cash drops– you volunteer.

This is how you land outside of Dobson’s Auto Repair, shielding your eyes from the setting summer sun and squinting up at the nondescript sign, thirty-two hundred dollars weighing your purse down. All cash.

It’s a nondescript shop with chipping paint and three bays, only two of which are occupied. One lonely mechanic makes his way between a Honda and a Subaru with no real hurry in his movements, two customers sip styrofoam cups and sit as far apart as they can manage on a battered, plaid couch. You’re unimpressed to say the least, even to the extent you wonder if you’re in the wrong place, but you remember Tee’s instructions: walk around the building, follow the gravel path until you reach the real garage. You will know when you see it.

The bored-looking secretary behind the desk perks up like she’s caught sight of you, and that incentivizes you to start moving, gravel crunching under your boots. You’re sure that the small mechanic shop you’ve discovered can’t be what you’re here for, not when you’re bearing five thick wads of cash rolled into neat stacks in the handbag you never use, but you are a newbie. You let your feet carry you around the small building, and what had appeared to be an irrelevant silver roof hanging in the background of Dobson’s comes into view on top of a massive warehouse and– you’re definitely in the right place.

The true garage opens almost cinematically before you as you approach. A long, metal-sheet warehouse with nine bay doors, over half of which are open, circulating the stale July air through the huge building. You don’t bother approaching slowly, pushing your heels into the gravel harshly to bring you closer to the sound of intermittent whirring and banging, the sound of a boombox turned up to its maximum volume. The sound sticks to you like a second skin, raising goosebumps along your legs even as the sticky summer heat licks at your calves.

The sensation is visceral when you step onto the concrete landing in the closest open bay door.

The most distinct thing that hits you is the smell: crude motor oil tickles your nose, something burnt lands on the back of your tongue, the acrid mixture of concrete and metal flooding your sensory palette. You pause for a brief second, recalibrating yourself. It’s a little difficult to regain your footing after being assailed by the harsh air burning through your sinuses, but you focus on the song blasting through the yawning cavern that is the garage.

It’s something you recognize, and you can ground yourself with it. Tom Morello’s predatory, coiled guitar riffs track your movements as you step further in, not bothering to hide the wonder on your face as you take it all in.

You’ve never seen a space so full of…stuff. Workbenches, vehicles, tools you couldn’t begin to even guess the names of are scattered everywhere, not a clear surface to be seen. Street signs—stolen, you think with an appreciative smile—are hammered into the steel walls, and a few huge neons of beer and car brands make the metal glow red, blue, white.

The types of cars you’re beginning to find familiar surround you, some on lifts, some with their supercharged guts on display, hoods popped as diagnostics are run. There’s a distinct lack of agitation to the garage that you’ve seen in other, similarly-sized operations while getting your oil changed, tires rotated. Everything feels routine, mom-and-pop. The first person you spot in the organized chaos is—Eijirou?

You blink. Sure as shit, that’s him— bobbing his head along to the beat of Audioslave’s low, aching hum and hammering at the door of a sleek green Kia Stinger like he’s coaxing it carefully into shape. It only takes him a moment to notice you, dazzled eyes darting around like an admission you hadn’t meant to make.

“Hey!” His voice carries easily over the music thanks to the wide bays, the tall cavern of the roof. The seemingly perpetually shirtless Eijirou is jogging over to you, wiping sweat from his brow and grinning like your interruption is more than welcome.

“Hey,” you laugh back, willing your voice to rise over the noise and partially failing. “Do you–”

“How are you?” Eijirou cuts you off when he approaches, holding his hand out like he expects you to shake it. You glance down, very aware of the streaks of oil on his palm, but clap your palm into his anyway.

“I’m good,” you say, surprised. “How are you?”

“Living somebody’s dream,” Eijirou says with a hint of dry sarcasm that feels like it might be borrowed. He gestures back to the Stinger. “Fuckin’ hate Kias. Foreign body builds are always a pain.”

You nod as if that bears any meaning to you, then your brain catches up. Eijirou. Here. Tee’s errand. You look up at him, suddenly. “Wait– you work here?”

“No,” Eijirou draws it out, smiling good-naturedly. “I just sweat my ass off and smack steel around for fun.”

“Could have fooled me,” you snipe back, but your eyes are still darting around. You aren’t sure if Eijirou’s the right person to have this conversation with, but your options are slim to none. “Are you...the owner?”

“Say that louder, where he can hear.” Eijirou winks, then looks over your shoulder. “Yo, Kat! Got company.”

Kat? Your eyes widen. Oh– no, no, no–

“The hell are you doin’ here?” His voice reaches you before he does, gruff and impatient. You turn on your heel, and you swear your breath catches in your throat.

Cars are hot. A guy that works on cars is hot. These are truths you made peace with long before you had the opportunity to get your hands on either of them. It’s a cruel twist of fate that the asshole approaching you is an infuriatingly muscled, grease-streaked, straight-out-of-a-wet-dream embodiment of this truth. This sucks.

“I’m looking for the owner.” You hold your ground, even as Katsuki’s eyes narrow at you threateningly. You despise how hard you’re finding it to keep a straight face. It’s almost a hundred out, and the sweat sticking Katsuki’s white wifebeater to the chiseled lines of his torso is unseemly evidence of the heat bearing down on you. It should also probably trouble you at how your pulse quickens when he glares down his nose at you, how the annoyance has something troublemaking kicking in your veins. The whole thing feels very unfair.

“Not looking anymore,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest. You very pointedly avoid looking at the bulge of his biceps. “Who told you about this place?”

“Tee,” you say indignantly. “He said go by Dobson’s Auto–”

“This isn’t Dobson’s,” Katsuki interrupts. You scowl at him. 

“Obviously. He told me the real shop was in the back.” Your eyes flicker over his unwavering face, waiting for any indicator that he’s picking up on what you’re saying. Katsuki holds firm– he’s going to make you say it, it seems. You lower your voice. “I have your retainer.  And your profit.”

That seems to spark a bit of reaction from him, finally. Katsuki’s eyes dart over the top of your head, connecting with Eijirou’s, before they return to you. He looks you over again, more careful in his appraisal this time. One eyebrow lifts, disbelieving.

“You’ve got my money.”

“Unless you want me to stick it in my wallet and go have a field day at Victoria’s Secret, then yes,” you hiss back at him, grabbing the shoulder of your bag for emphasis. Eijirou whistles lowly behind your back; you can practically hear the shit-eating grin spreading across his face as you and Katsuki stare each other down.

Katsuki jaw ticks. “Ei– the Stinger looks like shit. Go. And you– office.”

He turns on his heel, wiping his hands on a towel hanging from the back of his jeans and discarding it to the side thoughtlessly. His pace would require you to scurry after him to keep up, but you have no intentions of leaving here without your dignity intact, so you force your legs to move you casually along towards the one wall actually covered over with concrete. A window reveals a cluttered office within, sparse with decoration and thickly covered with paper. Above the window is a graffiti-style tag: La Escuelita.

Katsuki slams the door open behind himself, tapping impatiently on the frame as you make your way inside. The door shuts behind you so forcefully you have to physically stop yourself from flinching. A loaded silence stretches between you as Katsuki rounds the desk.

“Bartending not paying the bills anymore?” Katsuki looks you up and down. Scathing. “Carmen said she made a killing last Wednesday.” 

“Carmen fluffs her credit card tips,” you scoff.

“How would you know?”

“Who do you think runs Tee’s numbers?” you shoot back, shoving your bag off your shoulder and in one of the chairs facing the desk. You bend at the waist to start shuffling through the minimal contents, savoring the pause your revelation has brought him. You smirk. “Not just an errand girl, if you can believe that.”

When you straighten, two labeled envelopes in hand, the way Katsuki’s staring at you has changed. If you didn’t know better—which you don’t, really—you’d say he almost looks uneasy, but he swallows it, holding a hand out and curling his fingers up as if to say hand them over. You plant the envelopes in his hand, leaning one hip against the desk and crossing your arms over your chest.

You don’t miss the way his gaze travels to the plush of your hip against the desk, the way the wood cuts into your skin, slick with summer heat. His eyes widen fractionally, and his Adam’s apple bobs with a thick swallow; you file that away with a note of warm, sticky satisfaction.

“You gonna count it, or are we good?”

Katsuki snaps out of whatever strange trance he was in, scowling at you and opening the envelopes you’ve handed him. He speaks again as he sifts through the cash.

“If you’re doing Tee’s drops now, you’re not going to talk about money on that floor, got it?” Katsuki licks his thumb, eyeing you to make sure you’re listening. “You come, you find me, we handle it in here.”

“Got it.”

Katsuki peeks back up at you, bills still flying through his fingers like a reflex. “This gonna be a regular thing?”

“Yeah,” you say, steeling your shoulders. “I’m helping out.”

Katsuki scoffs. “That what Tee’s calling it? ‘Helping out’?”

“Overtime, actually.” You bite into a reluctant smile, surprised when Katsuki’s lips twitch. It’s slight, but there’s some dark amusement toying with him, a welcome reprieve from the bizarre tension that’s got his hackles up.

It’s that flicker of a smirk, the idea of it fully realized, that has you nodding your head yes when, later that week, Carmen says she’s got plans for you two. You have to play at reluctance as she loads you in her Camaro, very obviously baiting you for a reaction. Denki invited Jess– you remember Jess, from the other weekend? With those godawful highlights? Yeah, right. Denki called Jess and said they just finished a new build, something supposed to be really cool. They’re testing it at a lot near Dobson’s, but she doesn’t want to go alone, and I’m still pissed at Sero, so I don’t want to go support her alone. You game?

You are rather impressed with the nonchalance of your shrug, already smacking Carmen’s Camel Lights against your palm. You should probably interrogate the quiet zip of excitement that bites at you at the thought of seeing Katsuki again, but stealing Carmen’s cigarettes is much more appealing.

The sun has started lazily readying itself to sink when you pull up to the lot– it’s a setting that’s growing more comfortable, a long stretch of hot, black asphalt that’s been baking all day, ready to shred some rubber. You do remember Jess, vaguely– you think you’d had a conversation with her at the race a couple weeks ago, but you throw out your name anyway.

“Oh, yeah, I remember you,” Jess says, waving off the hand you extend in favor of a coconut-scented hug. “You’re down at Tee’s place, right?”

“That’s me.” You accept the styrofoam cup she extends to you, raising a suspicious eyebrow at the yellow sloshing around in it. “Good to see you again.”

“Malibu and pineapple juice,” Jess says by way of explanation, handing Carmen a cup of her own as they exchange a kiss to the cheek. “We have a cooler in the backseat, if you need a refill.”

Thankfully Jess turns just in time to miss the exchanged look of no way that you and Carmen share– rule number one, impressed on you with great severity from Carmen and Sero: never go in Denki’s backseat. Sero had almost shuddered recounting how often Denki shares a conquest story; the backseat of Denki’s zippy little Silvia has seen more women than a department store, if Sero’s to be believed.

“Thanks,” you cough out, averting your gaze from Carmen’s to stop the snicker building in your throat from slipping out.

At your arrival, Denki perks up from under the hood of a glittering white Subaru with a high spoiler, grinning. “Hey ladies!”

Katsuki unfolds beside him, and you don’t miss the way his gaze lands straight on you. You especially don’t miss the way he takes his time looking you over. He squints against the setting sun, but doesn’t falter, gaze snagging on where your tank top rides up to show the glinting sparkle of your bellybutton ring. You’re generous with the sip you drain from your cup while he takes you in, content to let yourself preen a little under his attention, something that feels like it’s not given lightly. A beat passes, but the scene unfolding on the track finally steals your attention.

Eijirou is hanging out of the passenger window of the monstrous Challenger you know to be his, shouting something profane over the thunder of an engine that sounds incredibly offended at what’s being asked of it. When you squint, you realize it’s Sero behind the wheel, and he’s taking a turn, and– the rear of the car swings, fast, tires screaming against the pavement, and the Challenger throws them in a way you’re positive is not what Sero’s aiming for. Sudden silence cuts across the lot, somehow more deafening than the roaring protests of Eijirou’s engine.

All you hear is a loud “Ha!”

“Eijirou’s gonna kill him if those tires look anything like they sound,” Denki remarks, grinning as a resigned Sero steps out of Eijirou’s Dodge, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“I’m gonna kill him if he fucks up the suspension,” Katsuki snarls, curling his lip as he slams the Subaru shut. “Took me six months to get that shit right.”

You raise your eyebrows, turning back to Carmen, who’s shaking her head.

“That thing’s never gonna drift,” she tsks. “Too heavy.”

“Sounded painful,” you agree with a wince, feeling a smile play at your lips as Eijirou and Sero approach, Eijirou’s lecturing growing easier to hear as they come closer. 

“You two done?” Katsuki’s tone is flat, final. Sero winces, shrugging.

“I’ll get it one day–”

“No way, bro,” Eijirou cuts in, shaking his head. “The old lady doesn’t like it, you heard her. She’s done.”

“His mom?” you whisper to Carmen, who smirks.

“His car,” she corrects, tilting her head toward the Challenger, whose tires are still smoking concerningly.

“We didn’t come out here to play.” Katsuki climbs into the Subaru, turns the key. The engine turns over almost irritably, shaking to life quickly and chugging under the shiny white hood. It sounds impatient.

Denki tilts his head, grinning. “I mean, we sort of did.”

Katsuki doesn’t dignify that with a response, testing the gas pedal with a hesitant foot. The Subaru argues back, air rumbling through the cylinders petulantly. His eyes narrow.

“She sounds pretty, Denks,” Eijirou says, smacking a hand on Denki’s shoulder. Denki nods, arms crossed over his chest.

“I wanted it to sound eager.” He tilts his head, nodding at Katsuki, who revs the engine a bit. The engine growls at him, seemingly bitter at its current immobilized state. Denki whistles, smiles to himself. “Tuned the back-pressure out, so when it’s idling, it sounds a little…I dunno. Blue-balled.”

“How cruel.” Sero grins beside him. “Who’s taking the first spin?”

“Me,” Katsuki says, with no room for argument. “Denki, get in here. I want to feel how the engine runs with whatever crazy shit you did to the cam on this thing.”

Denki hisses a little yes and jumps in the passenger seat without a second thought, already rambling, Katsuki nodding along because he actually understands the various terms Denki’s spitting out, rapid-fire.

“It isn’t that crazy– well. I pushed the cam timing by like, four degrees, so if you get some pushback on the lower RPMs, don’t freak. Once you’re past three thousand, she’ll pull, trust me. You’ll feel boost come in earlier because I tightened the wastegate, so wait til like, twenty-five hundred–”

You don’t hear the rest; Katsuki revs the engine again, like he wants to properly piss the thing off before he opens it up. The car is pretty, even if it sounds like it has a bad attitude, high spoiler and a little indigo racing stripe delicately painted along the side. When Katsuki finally pulls off the brakes, the exhaust breathes like it’s relieved, all the stagnant energy that feels caught up in the engine finally being allowed to roll through its proper channels smoothly. It jumps forward onto the track just like Denki said– eager.

You lapse into easy conversation with Jess and Carmen, both of them losing interest as the boys alternate between ripping their cars down the strip next to the Subaru and hopping out to debate minor tweaks.

“Okay,” Jess starts, lowering her voice just enough to make sure it doesn’t carry to where Katsuki and Eijirou are leaned on the hood of Denki’s Silvia. She wipes a thumb at the corner of her mouth, catching a stray drop of cocktail. “What do we think of Cruz?”

“Cruz Gonzalez?” you clarify.

“Yeah!” Jess nods enthusiastically. “Gold Lexus?”

You and Carmen exchange a look: Cruz had approached you just last week at the race you’d worked with Tee. You aren’t particularly taken with him, but you are also bored, even given everything you’ve taken on with the Office financials, so when he’d asked for your number, you’d obliged. This isn’t something you’re about to share with Jess, though.

“You came here with Denki,” Carmen points out, tilting her head to the Subaru that Denki’s spurring on like a racehorse.

Jess rolls her eyes. “By coincidence. You know we aren’t like that.”

“He seems nice,” you say neutrally, sipping your drink to hide the awkward expression that threatens to break through onto your face. This seems like enough to satisfy Jess, who smiles brightly.

“I think so,” she responds before leaning closer, peeking over her shoulder conspiratorially as Denki returns, tossing the keys into Eijirou’s hand, “but don’t tell Denki.”

“Why would we?” Carmen rolls her eyes. Jess huffs.

“I don’t know.” She chews on the inside of her cheek, shooting a glance towards the man in question over her shoulder. Jess lowers her voice even further. “I sort of have to keep Denki on retainer. Brittany wants me to hook her up with Katsuki.”

That should not hit you the way it does. A solid beat passes between the three of you.

“Brittany Michaels?” Carmen says disbelievingly.

Jess’ face tightens defensively. “Why not? She’s gorgeous–”

“It’s not that,” Carmen dismisses her easily, waving a hand in front of her face. “Didn’t she cheat on Eiji, like, a couple years ago?”

Jess shrugs. “He probably forgot.”

Carmen shoots you a look. “Eijirou doesn’t forget shit like that. Neither does Katsuki.”

“But it might be–”

“Yo, Carm!” Sero interrupts, calling from several feet away behind the wheel of his Nissan, waving coolly. “Want to come for a ride?”

You catch her eye before she responds, widening yours at the momentary panic of decision-making fluttering across her face. You try, honestly.

“Carmen, you’re still pissed at him– no, don’t–”

“Okay!” She gives you a regretful wince and sets her cup down on the hood of her Camaro, skittering down towards the Subaru and a grinning Sero before you can properly stop her. You pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers, exhaling. A grunted chuckle comes from your left, and you whip your head towards Katsuki, who’s smirking.

“Shut it,” you say sharply, not even sure when you developed the need to defend Carmen’s admittedly poor choices, or if it’s just becoming a reflex to snap at Katsuki when he ticks you off. He doesn’t even grant you a response, only letting the smirk on his face grow wider.

“Anyway,” Jess is already continuing, oblivious, “I don’t know how well you know Katsuki, but he isn’t the kind of guy you just walk up and pitch your friend to, you know? I already don’t even know him all that well.” She pauses, studying you quizzically. “Are you two…friends?”

You let your gaze drift idly back to Katsuki, the sharp lines of his profile and the shadows in the divots of his musculature. “Not exactly.”

“Figures,” Jess says with a short laugh. “He isn’t the friendliest, but he is, like, the bag of the century–”

You cut her off with a loud snort. “I mean, okay, he’s good-looking, but he’s not exactly great company.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.” You whip your face back to Jess in surprise; she’s smiling mischievously at you. When you don’t respond, she bites her lip impishly. “It’s not a secret that he’s run through half the girls that hang out around the races.”

You blink. “Really?”

“Oh, sure,” Jess continues airily. The empty cup in your hand is suddenly very interesting, and Jess hops to, digging around in the cooler as she goes on. “And from what I’ve heard, it’s a good time. Like, really good–”

“Sh,” you shush her urgently, eyes darting in the direction of the seemingly oblivious Katsuki. He’s still talking engine mods with Eijirou, but you’re not taking any chances.

Jess blushes, giggles, mouths oops, but thankfully, she lowers her voice. “Anyway, I don’t know how to get Brittany in because it’s like he just chooses. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.”

You frown unintentionally into your drink, mulling this over. The Katsuki Jess describes seems so at odds with the Katsuki that lurks around the peripherals of your thoughts when your guardrails are low. The Katsuki that takes shots at you, that drags his eyes over your body like he wants you to know he’s taking inventory. To you, he’s always seemed so…intentional.

“I didn’t expect that from him.” A bit overly honest. You backtrack with a wry laugh. “I mean, he’s so…I don’t know. Prickly. I wouldn’t expect him to get much ass, honestly.” 

Jess blatantly stares at Katsuki over your shoulder, raising a skeptical eyebrow at you. “Have you seen him?”

“Have you spoken to him?” you snap back, too sharp. “I mean, I know you said you don’t know him that well, but I do, and trust me, he’s a jackass.”

“I thought you said you weren’t friends.” Jess eyes you. You don’t give her an inch, sipping your freshly-filled drink and narrowing your eyes at the cloud of dust that is Sero and Carmen barreling back towards you. Jess takes your silence in stride, shrugs. “Whatever. I think he’d just be a good rebound for her.”

Something about it nips at you viciously; Katsuki is…you don’t have a lot of words for him, but casual is definitely not one you would use. He’s a pain in the ass, he’s rude, he’s…okay. He’s a little funny, sometimes, but when you let yourself look straight into the setting sun and let some internal part of yourself breathe, the most complimentary word you can give him that excludes anything physical is deliberate. 

You mercifully don’t get the chance to needle that thought further when Sero and Carmen come stumbling back up, giggling. You want to roll your eyes; you’ll be hearing about this tomorrow, that’s a given.

“Alright.” Sero looks around, hair mussed in a manner that’s not not suggestive, wiggles his eyebrows enticingly. “Who’s next?”

Eijirou clears his throat, stepping forward and snagging the keys from Sero’s hand. “I’ll go. I want to feel if the suspension’s still pulling left like it was last week.”

“We should give Denki a break,” Katsuki says gruffly, pushing off the hood of Eijirou’s Dodge. “Put it up against something with some real horsepower.”

“What about you?” Sero says suddenly, eyes narrowing on you. You perk up, suspicious.

“Me?”

“You want to give it a shot?” Sero tilts his head toward the shiny Subaru that Eijirou’s already opening the driver’s side to. You bite your lip, mulling it over.

“What, you scared?” Katsuki pipes up, something wicked tugging at his mouth. You frown.

“No.” Yes. Maybe a little. It’s not something you haven’t imagined after all your nights at the track, but you’re stuck between being intimidated and very much not wanting to be.

“You’ve got a shitty poker face,” Katsuki presses, only making you frown harder.

“Don’t be a dick.” Sero nudges him. “I was just asking. She doesn’t have to–”

“I’m not scared,” you interrupt, unable to bear the satisfaction curling over Katsuki’s features. Sero looks to you in surprise, but you ignore him, eyes cutting to Katsuki as you shrug carelessly. “I just don’t think it’d be that exciting.”

“Yeah?” Katsuki’s eyes flash. “Then get in.”

That sits for a moment before you realize Katsuki’s keys are in his hand, and he’s already taking a step towards that monstrous black Nissan that you’ve become so accustomed to watching from afar. The sun glints off the glossy finish, winking at you. Daring you.

You can feel everyone’s bated breath as you stare at Katsuki, waiting for a punchline you’re positive you won’t get. Eijirou’s mouth twitches. Carmen’s forehead falls into her hand.

“Fine.” You set your drink down with an air of finality that feels more directed at yourself than anyone else, and your feet are moving before you can second guess it. Katsuki’s eyebrows raise for the briefest moment, but he shutters his expression almost instantly and slides in behind the wheel like he has thousands of times.

“Jesus Christ,” Carmen mutters, pinching at the bridge of her nose.

“Your chariot awaits,” Eijirou says, shit-eating grin now fully plastered on his face as he tilts his head in the direction of Katsuki’s car as the engine turns over. It growls at you, predatory. Fuck.

“I better survive this,” you whisper to a dumbfounded Carmen as you slip past, heart hammering wildly in your throat.

You slide into the passenger seat too easily, keeping your movements fluid and practiced so you don’t lose your nerve. The first thing you notice is how far you drop down– you practically feel like you’re sitting on the ground, collapsing into the seat with enough weight to shake a huff from your lungs. You pointedly avoid Katsuki’s watchful eye as you buckle up, trying not to let a satisfied hum crawl up your throat as the feel of the car hits you. The engine, more of a steady, rolling growl than a purr, feels like it’s trying to lull you into a sense of false security, the hot leather licks at your skin unforgivingly, and the smell– oil, hot metal, a hint of something manly, like smoky cologne. It feels like sitting inside Katsuki’s mind, if you could even phrase it like that.

Katsuki throws the car in first, eyeing you as he rolls the three of you down to the imagined starting line where Eijirou’s idling in the Subaru.

“You gonna freak out on me?”

“No–”

“Tell me now,” Katsuki says, something grave and unfamiliar infecting his voice. You know he doesn’t fuck around about cars, but it still catches you off guard. “I won’t give you any shit. Can’t have you spazzing out when you feel the jump and trying to rip your door open or something stupid.”

You turn to face him properly, finding a welcome breath of comfort in the natural agitation he pulls out of you. “I’m not going to freak out.”

Katsuki’s eyes flicker over you, the press of your thighs into the leather below, where the seatbelt cuts across your collarbone. He huffs something under his breath and rolls the windows down, maybe a quarter of the way. You aren’t ungrateful—who would have thought that a confined space with Katsuki Bakugou would feel like anything less than a stalled elevator—but you still look at him in surprise. He shrugs.

“You should feel the wind.” He speaks without looking at you, fiddling with something on his dash that doesn’t seem necessary. “That’s the point. To feel the speed.”

You nod along like that wasn't the single most daunting thing he could have said. You glance at the speedometer that tops out at 200mph and swallow.

Eijirou revs his engine beside you, challenging. Katsuki presses back, but it’s half-hearted, playful. The sound of a monster laughing.

“Ready?” Katsuki asks, still not looking at you. His eyes are glued to Denki, who’s between the two cars swaying his hips like you’ve seen the hot girls they use for flashlight drops at big meets do. You both laugh quietly, lacking entirely in humor but bloated with tension.

“Yeah. Whenever you are.”

When Denki’s hand drops, you have a single, heart-stopping second to think, internally, what the hell am I doing?, before the launch presses you back into the seat with an effortlessness that tells you you’re now a passive part in a machine. It isn’t rough, but it’s insistent, the wind shrieking through the cracks in the windows loud enough to draw a startled, pitchy laugh from you. Your fear falls away just as Kastuki breaks 60 in 6 seconds, left behind in the tracks of burnt rubber as adrenaline courses through you, lightning hot and more intense than you’ve felt in your entire life. It’s fun. It’s way too fucking fun.

A stuttered gasp comes puttering out from you as Katsuki eases off the gas about halfway down the track, letting Eijirou rocket ahead in the Subaru. Your breath is hard to catch, evasive as you giggle madly.

“Holy shit.” You turn to him, unabashed. “Holy shit.”

You’re so amped that you’re practically high, so the weight of Katsuki’s face doesn’t settle like it should, but you’ll have ample time to pick it over later. His eyes are bright, a disbelieving grin lighting up his features, finally free of all the furrowed-brow, brooding nonsense that usually weighs him down. He’s looking at you like you’re a sight to behold, eyes flickering over you rapidly, like he’s taking notes.

“Yeah? That was fun?”

“Fun?” you say back, one hand ripping through the tangles in your hair excitedly. You won’t find the words, so you don’t bother, only able to chase the rush. “Can we go again?”

Katsuki’s eyes do something funny, something intense in a way that’s unnatural to what you know of him so far. He’s just on the verge of responding when Eijirou whips back around beside him, hanging out of the driver’s side and grinning smugly at the two of you.

“Quit babysitting! Let’s run it again!”

Your chest is still heaving as Eijirou zips off toward the start of the track. Katsuki has calmed down a little now, sobered by Eijirou’s taunt if the tic of his jaw is anything to go by, and you immediately know that you don’t want that. You want his attention, so you get it, boldly brushing your fingers over where his are still tight on the gear shift. Katsuki’s face slackens ever so slightly before he can stop it; you almost think you can see his breath catching in his chest.

“Well, you heard him.” You may not call Katsuki a friend, but you know enough about him to know he can’t say no to a dare. “I’ve seen you race. Let’s open this thing up.” Your eyes slide meaningfully to where the engine hides under layers of carefully sculpted metal.

Something shifts in him. Katsuki’s eyes flicker with something feral, something that makes warmth drip down below your stomach, pool with restless energy. You want to sink your teeth into something.

“Open it up, huh?” Katsuki laughs under his breath, and for once, it isn’t something you’ve had to earn. “You’re talkin’ like us. Been hanging around too much.”

You shrug, practically vibrating with excitement. “I want to see what your car can do.”

Katsuki’s Adam’s apple bobs, his jaw sets, and his eyes grow dark, determined. You know you’ve struck a chord, even if unintentionally, and you’re glad he doesn’t give you the opportunity to press on it. The windows seal shut with a quiet sucking sound, and you tilt your head at him as your world narrows to Katsuki and the car beneath you. He doesn’t give you an explanation, pulling to a stop beside Eijirou. This time, when Eiji taps the gas at him, Katsuki gives him a proper answer. Denki, returning to his post between the two cars, smirks at the loud snarl of Katsuki’s Nissan, one eyebrow raising curiously. The rev of his engine shoots through you from the balls of your feet to your temples, a course of energy that feels too powerful to be manmade. But then again, Katsuki built this engine himself.

“Close your eyes.”

“What?” It sounds ridiculous, but when you turn to Katsuki questioningly, he doesn’t give you any hints. Just flicks his eyes up at his rearview, back at the oscillating RPM needle as he warms his engine up, priming it.

“I’ll tell you when to open. Trust me.”

That’s the Katsuki you think you’re beginning to learn the shape of– deliberate to a fault. You don’t know when you started trusting him, but when you reach within yourself to question him, you find that something’s rooted there, something that wants to listen to him. You close your eyes, against all reason. Before you can feel strange about it, Katsuki’s car pounces, and everything about him makes sense in a millisecond.

The only sensation you can process immediately is the pressure. It never occurred to you that speed would feel heavy, but this time, Katsuki’s Nissan shoves you back against the seat, with no room for argument and so hard that you can feel the framework beneath the cushion. The speed climbs up your throat, fingers twitching and digging into the leather, the bare skin of your thighs, and then, impossibly– something kicks from the back of the car, a commitment to breaking the sound barrier, you think, and you’re rocketing faster, all the breath being entirely squeezed from your lungs by the physics of a body going faster than it was meant to.

“Open,” Katsuki shouts over the thunder of horsepower, and you do, and the world is watercolored around the car. You catch a peek of the white needle pressing past 120, but your eyes close again with the involuntary shriek of glee that comes ripping out of your throat. You’ve never felt anything like it, like you’re experiencing something that the laws of nature themselves forbid. It feels like nothing you could put into words, mainlining caffeine and learning how to fly all at once, and as soon as it crests, heart stopping in your chest, you know you’ll be chasing this feeling for the rest of your life.

When you manage to force them open again, your eyes dart to Katsuki and– oh. The impossibly fast rhythm in you picks up speed seeing the white-knuckled grip of his hand on the gear shift, the calculated eyes narrowed at the searing asphalt like he’s going to rend it before his tires can, the cocky set of his jaw and the smug curve of his lips and– now he’s glancing back at you, letting himself see you for the briefest second while he eases off the gas. 

This is where you learn that speed can become light. The crushing pressure on your chest eases, incrementally, as the engine stops urgently sending you forward and starts to allow outside pressure to slow the body of the car down. It feels like floating if floating felt like a rug being pulled out from underneath you, like a seatbelt biting into the skin of your collarbone. It takes longer than you expect, and you wonder if you’re even still breathing by the time you get to reasonable highway speeds. When Katsuki finally rolls you to a stop, the silence is louder than the idling, cooling engine, what you’ve just discovered is whooshing in your ears so loud that you’re contemplating hearing loss.

Katsuki’s trying to play at caution when he looks back at you, but you can see the keen curiosity in him. A peal of laughter comes flying out of you, breathless and disinhibited and lighter than you’ve felt in maybe your whole life.

“Katsuki…” is all you can get out before you’re laughing again, running your fingers through your hair. “How fucking fast was that?”

He doesn’t even try for humility, smirking as you desperately try to catch your breath. “Think we capped out at 140.”

“140,” you repeat slowly, another overwhelmed giggle racking your frame. You wish you could verbalize this, this urgent thrumming rocking every muscle in your body. You feel like you’re being shocked over and over again, and welcoming it.

“You’ve never done something like that,” Katsuki says, factually, but not unkindly. He’s already urging the car to move—slowly—to carry you both back toward the group, and you can feel the craving in your chest for more, to watch him kick it all the way up. Your heart’s thumping in tune with his engine, eager to climb back up through the gears.

“No,” you agree, still breathless. “But– how does that even work? Like, you built this, right?”

“The car?” Katsuki cocks an eyebrow at you. You like this side of him, so much so that you can’t even build a wall around it. Playful, smug, in his element. Your stomach flutters.

“The engine,” you shoot back, smiling. “I mean, they can’t sell this at a dealership, right?”

“Hell no,” Katsuki scoffs, drumming his fingers idly on the car like he’s assuring it of its singularity. “Can you imagine some random fuckin’ civilian dealing with that much juice?”

“How many horsepower is it?”

“How much,” he corrects, but there’s no malice to it. “You even gonna know what it means if I tell you?”

The car’s coming to a regretful stop now, but it still feels like your bones themselves are vibrating. You tilt your head at him, sufficiently shaken up enough to be unguarded. “Can you explain it?”

Katsuki looks at you properly for the first time since his speedometer hit zero. His eyes flicker over you, and you can see the intrigue shining. It’s flattering, almost unnerving to have a creature like him so attuned to you all of the sudden, makes you want to ask the right questions again and again just to keep him looking at you like that.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll explain it to you.” His voice is quiet, soft, a little excited, and you think it’s the rawest thing you’ve gotten from him yet. You file this warm, vulnerable Katsuki away for later, letting him belong to the silence of the space between his sealed windows. He nods slowly at your door, prompting you when the fragile moment stretches out between you in a way you don’t think either of you are equipped to deal with. “Hop out. Get your drink.”

You follow his instruction, feeling a little more human when the hot, wet air envelops you, kisses over every inch of your skin like a mother reassuring herself of your safety. Sero and Denki are already jeering when you step out, shivering even in the heat.

“Show off,” Denki says through a smile, planting a hand on Katsuki’s shoulder that Katsuki quickly shakes off.

“Ponerle mucha crema a sus tacos, bro,” Sero says with a good-natured roll of his eyes.

“That was crazy,” Jess breathes quietly as you approach, already moving to hand you your cup. You shrug, despite the tremor of adrenaline still coursing through your limbs.

Carmen’s watching you strangely, eyes flicking between you and Katsuki like she’s puzzling something out. Before she can make whatever sly comment is clearly toying at her mouth, Eijirou comes barreling in, slinging an arm around her neck and digging his knuckles into her scalp playfully despite the squeak she lets out. The friendly bickering he starts with Denki about something to do with the drive shaft gives you an opening.

“So,” you start, taking a long sip of your pineapple drink to brace you, leaning up against the passenger door of the still-warm GTR beside Katsuki. He raises an eyebrow at you. “How much horsepower?”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “650, give or take.”

“And that’s a lot?” you ask, treating yourself to another long dreg of your cocktail because he looks even better up close and he’s making a face like maybe you’re an idiot for even asking that.

“Yeah, that’s a lot.”

“Like, my car, for example—”

“What do you drive?”

“Mitsubishi Eclipse.”

“GT?”

“I think.” Your tongue goes between your teeth. Katsuki waits patiently. “Yeah, yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Not…terrible.” You can see the effort it takes him to say it playing out on his face. “V-6, 3.0 liter?”

You realize he’s asking you to confirm something and your face warms. You shrug. “Sure.”

Katsuki scoffs, but it’s amused. Light. “Okay, so probably breaks 200. Might get up to 250 if you handle it right.”

You pause. “And the GTR has 650.”

Katsuki’s mouth twitches, like you’re catching on. “Yeah.”

“So, how did it—” you stop yourself, eyes flitting toward the glossy hood that’s hiding that superpowered engine. Something about it thrills you, knowing he manhandles this much power just to get to work every day. “I mean, it doesn’t come like that, right?”

“No,” Katsuki snorts, “not even close. Stock runs…” he pauses to think, biting his cheek and looking up, which is unfathomably cute, “about 480? Which is already a serious car, don’t get me wrong. Most people would be happy with that, but the engine’s got a ceiling. Factory parts can only take so much.”

“So you change them,” you supply. Katsuki nods, something lighting up in his eyes.

“Exactly.”

“Where do you start?”

Katsuki’s head tilts, properly fixing his gaze on you. He’s as unabashed in his assessment of you as he is in everything, and you want to keep quizzing him based on that spark of interest alone.

“Boring shit first,” Katsuki says, almost hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to check out on him. “I started with the exhaust so I could get the engine breathing right. Replaced the factory downpipes, got the cats out of the way.”

You stare at him. “So…the sound?”

You’ll credit him— he actually looks a little impressed. “More than that, but basically.”

“So that’s why it…like, growls.”

Katsuki coughs a laugh. “Sure. Yeah. I just didn’t want to fuck with it too much without being able to hear was I was doin’. ECU got tuned after— Denki helped a little, if you can believe it, but I did the hands-on stuff myself.”

He pauses, looking at you, and you get the impression this is something significant. “I take it that was really hard?”

“Pain in the ass,” Katsuki confirms, not without easing a bit. A tiny bit of that inherent rigidity bleeds out of him as he talks, gaze drifting over to the Nissan like he admires it for being tricky. “The ECU is like…the car’s brain. When you start swapping parts, you’ve got to give the car a way to understand how to use them, otherwise the whole thing’s fucked. It might run, but not like it should. Most people ship an ECU out if they need it tuned.” He takes a moment to let his eyes run over the curves of his car, pride glinting in his eyes. “I wasn’t lettin’ anyone get their hands on it.”

“Except Denki,” you interrupt cheekily. He rolls his eyes.

“He’s a freak of nature. Electrical shit’s his second language. I needed him for a couple tuning questions, but did the grunt work on my own. After the ECU came the intercooler—won’t bore you with that—but once we got all that shit done, we could commit with the turbos. That’s the horsepower you’re asking about.”

“Right.” You aren’t following, but it’s exhilarating to hear him talk like this. Uncontrolled, almost passionate. “And a turbo is…?”

“A fan.” Katsuki wrinkles his nose, rubbing at his chin while he thinks of how best to translate. “Sort of. Takes the exhaust gas and shoves it back into the engine to make more power. That’s what tears the ceiling off an engine. After that, it’s…kind of boring again. Fuel injectors, retuning—”

“It isn’t boring,” you say, hurriedly. Katsuki’s face opens for just a moment, revealing something that you don’t know how to hold in your hands. “It’s cool, actually.”

The armor goes back up, but it feels like it’s been constructed differently. Katsuki narrows his eyes at you, suspicious. “Like you’re getting any of this.”

“I’m trying,” you huff back, eyeing him. “It’s just complicated. Like, where in the engine is the wasted gas going–”

“It’s not that complicated,” Katsuki insists, an uncharacteristically harmless bite to his tone like he wants you to speak his language, “and it’s not wasted gas. It’s exhaust, there’s a difference. Like, you know how an engine works?” You look at him blankly, and judging by the sigh that leaves him, you’re about to know more about engines than you’ve ever given second thought to. “Look, the basic thing you’re dealing with is combustion, right? That’s what generates power–”

“Give it a rest, Kat,” Eijirou laughs as he interrupts, placing a heavy hand on Katuski’s bare shoulder and shaking it. “You’re gonna put her to sleep.”

“It’s interesting,” you say quickly despite how your cheeks grow warm, noting the way familiar irritation is replacing the fading enthusiasm on Katsuki’s face. You don’t think Eijirou has it in him to be genuinely malicious, but you want to throttle him right now. “I mean, it’s a cool car. I wanted to know how he built it.”

Eijirou cuts ahead before Katsuki can respond, smiling slyly at his friend. “You tell her about my beautiful suspension job yet?”

Katsuki rolls his eyes, scoffs dismissively. “If we’re gonna talk about suspension, we’re gonna talk about the Dodge, the one I retrofitted for your old-ass Mopar–”

“He fought me the whole time,” Eijirou continues, talking right over Katsuki with a smug grin, “but he can’t take credit for the whole GTR. The coilover job I fabricated for it is a work of art, was on the first try–”

“No,” Katsuki cuts him off, sliding narrowed eyes towards Eiji, lip curling, “remember the first dampers you put on it? They were so damn stiff I’d tap the brakes and the front end would drop like a bitch–”

“Which I fixed, mind you–”

Katsuki drifts away from you unintentionally, pulled into a brotherly squabble about shock absorbers and damper stiffness, far out of your depth as far as your meager knowledge of cars. You know you need new brake pads on your Eclipse, but you don’t think that there will be a good opening to wedge that into this particular conversation. Gravity and the deflation of what might have been a moment if Katsuki wasn’t so…Katsuki pulls you back to Carmen and Jess, who are animatedly discussing the merits of hooking up with guys who have their tongues pierced. You don’t miss how Carmen’s eyes flick longingly to Sero, who has a sparkling silver ball just through the middle of his tongue. It makes you chuckle as you ease against Denki’s hood where you’d started the night, trying to swallow the disappointment you want so desperately to pretend isn’t eating you inside out.