Kim & Sons Auto Repair has confused the general public for as long as it’s been open — and that’s precisely the point. Woman-owned and operated, the name bamboozles the local troglodytes long enough to book repair services. By the time their stereotypical thinking catches up with them and they realize who they’re dealing with, they’d have to forfeit a cancellation fee to seek out a male mechanic. Nobody ever does; wounded pride is easier to heal than a wounded wallet.

As far as Yoongi is concerned, Mrs. Kim was a genius for this. Her daughter is, too. She’ll be a worthy successor, in his — and everyone else’s — opinion, when the time comes.

The bell jingles as he pulls open the glass-paned door to the shop. To his surprise, no one is waiting at the counter to greet him. Brows now furrowed, he glances around the vacant waiting area, hoping his hunch hadn’t been wrong.

It’s the first time he’s been inside in over a year; and the only time he doesn’t shout to alert the Kims of his presence. The urge is there, of course, but he knows that time kept marching on in his absence. Now, he doesn’t know if he’s that kind of welcome.

Yoongi flattens his smile into a straight line, worried that some things did change.

He steps around the counter and approaches the doorway into the garage itself. As he moves, he can hear tinkering growing louder; metal on metal. Humming, too, though that’s interrupted by intermittent curse words.

Now, that’s familiar.

All he sees when he crosses the threshold is steel-toed boots, grease-stained jeans, and small hints of skin that peek through holes in the denim. The body those belong to is halfway under some absolute clunker. Yoongi can tell, based on bent knees alone, that some things wait right where they were left.

“Be with you in a second!”

It takes a bit longer than that for you to emerge, but you eventually do. As you scoot forward, the rickety, wooden creeper underneath you squeaks along the cement floor. The flashlight you’re holding drops immediately at your side. It rolls back to the space you’d left underneath the car.

Surprise is spread all over your face when you see him standing there. Then again, it may just be a smudge.

Your smile is a mind-blowing shade of white next to the black something you unknowingly wiped from the back of your hand, across your left cheek. And you sound just like your mother — expletive included — when you gasp, “Min fuckin’ Yoongi, as I live and breathe!”

“There’s that mouth,” he snorts.

Thank god, he thinks. He’s missed your crassness. Missed the playful way you glare at him when he says shit like this to you. For once, you don’t smack his bicep in retaliation.

Yoongi extends a hand to pull you to your feet. The expression you’re wearing tells him he must be joking; and really, he knows better. Then, you stand on your own.

You’ve always been good at that.

Like you have to make sure he’s real — really there — you reach out and poke his cheek, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Yoongi doesn’t care in the slightest that he’s likely smudged now, too. All he can focus on is the way your lip twitches upwards when you’re satisfied with your findings.

“If you’re in town for a wedding or a funeral, tell whoever it is that I didn’t want to be invited, anyway,” you smirk, head cocked to the side. “It’s gotta be one of the two, right?”

You don’t say the quiet part out loud. He hears it, still: You said you’d never come back for any other reason.

Yoongi grimaces, if only for a second. It’s been a month since this plan came about, and it still feels weird, sitting on his tongue. He shakes his head and offers, “My dad.”

He doesn’t say the quiet part out loud, either, but it sits in his stomach like a stone. Immediately, your eyebrows shoot up. Clearly, it’s just as weird to you as it is to him. Yoongi wonders what conclusions you’re jumping to, having heard that what pushed now pulls.

Sheepishly, he rubs the back of his neck and hits you with a flat-line smile; the one you used to tease him for. Remembering that fact makes the corners of his mouth curve upwards.

“Damn bakery isn’t gonna run itself,” Yoongi continues. “Old man’s retiring to travel, or… whatever it is retired people do.”

You blink, stunned, and gesture wordlessly out the open door in the form of a question. He doesn’t need to see where you’re pointing to know what you’re pointing at. And even if he did glance towards the family business across the street, his eyes would only go as far as the bus stop on the corner. He’s been picturing it since he left town.

Left you with the only kiss he’d ever had the chance to give you.

He watches your eyes flick briefly from him, to that bench in particular, then back again. As he does, he wonders if — maybe — that bench has made a home in your head, too.

You wipe your hand off on your jeans, as if it makes any difference. As if Yoongi has ever — would ever — mind your callused fingertips, and grease-slicked knuckles.

When you finally do offer your hand to shake, you heave a melodramatic sigh. “There goes the neighborhood.”

“And here I was thinking that property values decreased when I left,” he mutters, now earning the bicep swat he’d been waiting for. He yelps in feigned offense, “Hey! Hitting a fellow business-owner — in this economy?”

You cross your arms and pop your hip with a roll of your eyes.

“Forgot how sensitive you are, dough boy,” you tease. “What are you gonna do, bake a cake about it?”

Yoongi tries to bite back a grin. As he does, he shakes his head. “Nah, that’s not what I’m going to do about it.”

With a quick glance down at his watch, he confirms that closing time is a few ticks away. You’re looking at him with confusion in your eyes when he resets his sights on you.

You nudge, “Then what?”

“I’m gonna give the grease ball an hour to get ready, and then I’m making it buy me dinner.”

“Min fuckin’ Yoongi,” you whistle, visibly impressed by his audacity. “Did you find a sense of humor on that sabbatical of yours?”