@gojoturo - Tumblr Blog

routine service - c.k. : 01. drop-off

summary: you came to this small town to reset your life after a so-called "failed" engagement expecting peace and quiet. maybe some self-growth too. instead, you acquire a seventy year old neighbor who breaks into your house with breakfast, a car that needs constant attention, and a hot, grumpy mechanic who looks like he hates you but keeps fixing things for you anyway. the town insists this is a community. you suspect a conspiracy.

pairing: mechanic!choso kamo x first grade teacher!reader overall warnings: MDNI, fem!reader, mechanic!choso, language, eventual smut (more tags to come), grumpy choso x sunshine (?) reader, slow burn, small town romance, jealousy, angst...more tags to come. this chapter: MDNI, language, mechanic!choso, reader is adjusting to new town, language (profanity), reader making new friends (cutie), eso busts choso's balls a bit, reader isn't as sunshine as normal (tough day for her), NOT PROOFREAD (i’ll edit over time prob) word count: ~7k author's note: hi hi! this is my first fic (on this blog) and m'still working on other chapters atm. I hope you guys like this so far!!! choso supremacy babyyyy. also m'still new to jjk, so don't judge me too much lol xoxoxo. hope y'all enjoy. please feel free to comment or message me anything you'd like to see happen in this story :) masterlist

Believe it or not, you did think this through.

You swear it.

And it really did make total sense. The thought made sense in your head like in the way a receipt exists at the bottom of your shopping bag or inside your purse. Creased, undeniable…maybe a little accusatory too. And you remember the exact moment. The way you tucked your leg beneath you on the chair. Even the speed you nodded your head as you accepted this.

It made sense.

Just maybe not…all the way.

And it’s the only blaring thought in your mind as you sit in your car, the engine still ticking as it cools down, and stare at the house that you now apparently legally own.

But that’s the problem when you make plans during an emotional free fall. Sure, they look completely and totally reasonable on paper. Only to betray you as soon as you park in the driveway of your new home.

The house stares back. Taunts you almost.

There were definitely pros and cons. You remember weighing those clearly before flipping your life a complete 180. You even made a list. With bullet points. And bullet points under those bullet points. A very composed version of you with the fresh blown out hair and manicured nails that cost more than they really need to. A version of you that said I have my life fucking together with no doubt in your mind.

That version of you was also recently wronged by her fiancé.

Former fiancé.

Former almost husband.

Man you found in a position that made it immediately known that he was no longer going to be filling that role for you.

More specifically: in between the legs of your best friend.

You don’t picture that directly anymore. You picture the aftermath of it all. The awkward silence that formed because seriously what the fuck were you supposed to do in that moment? Scream and cry, sure. But you were too stunned. You remember the way your body went completely still. You remember how your brain managed to latch onto objects that just simply didn’t matter.

The shoe by the night stand.

The sound of your breathing.

That dumb fucking red lampshade you always hated but your fiancé insisted on keeping. Like it was an object worth dying for.

You drum your fingers against the steering wheel once. Twice.

“Okay….okay.” You say to no one but yourself in the car. Maybe to the dust sitting on your dashboard if anything. “We are sooo not doing this right now.”

You open the door. The ground crunches beneath your shoes as you make your way toward the porch. Only to pause halfway as you take it all in.

The house doesn’t look abandoned per se….but it doesn’t look necessarily loved either,

It sits a bit off center. Paint faded in spots, probably from the sun. And the windows aren’t dirty but they aren’t exactly shiny and clear either.

The porch dips a bit. Not dramatically. More like it remembers weight. The people that used to hang out on it.

The front door is red. And all you can do is think about that fucking terrible lamp shade all over again and it has you digging your feet a little harder into the gravel as you now basically stomp your way up to it.

Red enough to make your eye twitch.

“Fuck this.”

-

You wake up because someone is talking.

Not outside or in your dream or anything like that.

No.

Someone is literally talking inside the house.

Your eyes open to a ceiling you don’t really recognize yet. It’s too smooth in some places, a slight hairline fracture running towards to foot of the bed.

“…but if y’put them back like that, they just won’t sit right…mhm…they never do.”

There’s a pause. A cabinet opening. A drawer sliding then closing. The sound of ceramic touching the counter top.

“…s’not like I mind a mess here and there, y’know? But disorder like this? It lingers.”

Your brain tries to conjure up the idea of who’s speaking. Definitely not young. But a voice that belongs here.

The voice moves a bit closer. Not upstairs close. Or standing at the door close. But just closer that it sounds less like an echo. Like she’s near the bottom of the staircase. Possibly resting a hand on the banister or tilting her head as she listens to whoever she’s on the phone with.

“Eleanor never minded noise in the mornings, y’know.” the voice says.

Eleanor?

Your great aunt? As in the one who gave you this very home?

The name slips through your brain slowly. Your chest slightly loosening at the concept that this unknown voice at least knew Eleanor. Not a burglar or ghost.

“Y’know, I can hear you up there,” she calls. “All that thinking. Y’may as well be pacing.”

You freeze. Pull the comforter tighter to your body.

“I…wh-what?” You say.

“Come down,” the voice yells back. “You’re awake now. And lying in bed this late isn’t doing you any favors.”

This late? The sun is barely fucking up.

You glance at the window. Light barely peaking in through the glass. And then you look down at yourself as you sit up.

You sigh.

The floor is slightly cold in a way that has your toes curling a bit. And half-way down the stairs, you catch your reflection in a narrow mirror on the wall. You stop.

You look…tired. Unpolished. No city armor to protect you now.

And the smell of…melted butter…bacon?—hits you before you even step foot in the kitchen. Has you practically floating into the kitchen.

You step off the last stair, you’re barefoot…half-awake…and totally compromised between concern for the stranger in your house and hunger.

The lady in question, doesn’t even bother to look up right away. She’s standing at the stove with a rubber spatula in hand.

“See?” She says. “Y’made it down here.”

You scratch the side of your head, eyes squinting a bit. “I…I feel like I should be more alarmed or concerned than I am,” you say.

She snorts. Flips a few pieces of bacon over. “Puh-lease. What do y’need to be concerned over a seventy year old woman in your kitchen for?”

“Uh, I don’t know…” you say slowly. “Seventy is still pretty spry, y’know.”

She laughs. Like she’s pleased with your answer. “So y’think I just hauled myself up all those warped stairs to hurt you?”

“I mean…” you shrug your shoulders, drop down onto the chair at the kitchen table. “I don’t know what your hobbies include.”

She turns now. Eyebrow raised. Spatula mid-air. “If I wanted you dead, sweetheart, you’d still be in bed.”

You blink.

She grins.

Then sets a plate down in front of you. Eggs…bacon…toast already buttered. “You city people always actin’ like something bad’s about to happen.” She waves a hand. “Out here, if there’s someone you don’t know in your kitchen…it’s usually cause you needed help and didn’t even know it yet.”

You stare at the food. Yours stomach grumbles.

“…Did, uh…did Eleanor get kidnapped into breakfast?” You question, reaching for the fork.

“Oh, constantly.” She says. “S’like the woman forgot to eat if no one reminded her.”

That softens something in you. The casual familiarity this lady had with your great-aunt.

“…So.” You glance up. “Do y’have a name? Or is this the kind of situation where I just call you ‘the seventy year old who broke into my home and fed me’?”

She purses her lips like she’s contemplating. “Either works f’me. But if the names June.”

“Like the month?”

“Don’t get smart with me,” she turns back to the stove. “Eat while its hot.”

You take a bite.

Groan. The sound your body makes when it’s happy. Swallow, and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Y’know, I kinda feel attacked.” You say with the fork half-way to your mouth. “But also deeply cared for.”

She hums. “Eleanor used to say you can tell how someone’s been doing just by how fast they eat when they don’t have to.”

You slow your movements. Just a bit. Just enough to notice.

“So,” June continues. Rinsing the pan in the sink like she lives here. “What brings you here now? House has been sitting empty for some time now.”

You choke. Not actually. But maybe, just a little.

“I…uh…I was. Engaged.” You say. “Was…like past tense. Short lived, yeah?”

You see June shake her head a bit.

“And I just…needed to not be where I was, y’know?” You add. “And then Eleanor passed and suddenly I owned a house and thought…sure why not. Let’s just uproot everything in my life.”

June snorts. “That tracks.”

“It does?”

“Oh yeah, sweetheart.” She says. “Eleanor always said that this is the place that attracts people during quarter-life crisis’.”

You take another bite. Slower.

“I was supposed to be a teacher…” you say. “First grade. Even had all the certification and schooling done…but then…” you shrug. “Life happened…or it didn’t.”

June pauses.

“Hm,” she turns the sink water off. “Well, the school could use one.”

“Hm?”

She turns to look at you like its some obvious answer. “The elementary school is short-staffed. Always is. The kids are loud. Parents are probably worse. But it’s work.”

Your chest does that weird fluttery thing.

“I…I just moved here…I don’t even…uh,” you pause. “I don’t even know where the school is.”

“It’s brick.” June replies. “Has a few swing sets that squeak obnoxiously sometimes. You’ll find it.”

You laugh. “Y’seem very confident in my future.”

She crosses her arms. “You’re eating breakfast made by a total stranger in your kitchen before eight in the morning,” she smiles. “I’d say you’re already committed.”

And then she’s reaching for her purse on the counter.

“Anyways,” she moves her hand around her bag like she’s digging for something. “There’s a thing tonight. At the community hall. Not like a thing thing. Just people and food. Y’should come.”

You hesitate. “I don’t…”

“Nonsense.” She cuts you off. “I’ll see you there tonight.”

And then she’s slipping a small handwritten card to you.

“And,” she says, “if your car starts making a noise like it did yesterday, which just by looking at the state of it, you’ll want to take it to the garage on Maple.”

Okay, seriously…how did she even know about the weird noise?

You glance up, eyebrows raised. “Because?”

“Because Choso works there,” she says. “And he won’t overcharge you.”

You nod slowly.

“Okay,” you say. Leaning back further into the kitchen chair. “Garage. Community Hall. Potential teaching job. Home invasion that come with breakfasts.”

June smiles.

“See? You’re fitting in already.”

-

You don’t realize that you’ve been clocked until someone says something about your purse.

It’s almost innocent.

You’re standing near the dessert table (because why not)…because someone fully insisted that you don’t know happiness until you try Mrs. Kamo’s mochi.

“That’s a really nice purse,” A woman about your age tilts her head. “Is it real?”

You glance at it like you forgot you were even clutching onto it like it was some sort of lifeline. It’s small. A soft leather purse that your ex bought on a random whim while in Milanbecause I think this one suits you better than the other three we just got you.

You swallow. Then smile. But it’s pretty thin.

“Yeah,” you say. Unsure. “It’s…uh, it’s real.”

“Thought so.” She hums. “The stitching’s too neat.”

“S’that how you tell?” You ask.

“Always,” she says. Like its a fact. “The fake ones always overdo it somehow.”

You nod your head slowly.

“I’m Mai, by the way.”

“I’m…”

“Eleanor’s niece,” another voice cuts in. “We know.”

You blink. “S’there like some sort of sign-up sheet that I missed?”

It earns you a laugh almost immediately.

“Oh my god, no.” Mai says, waving her hand in the air carelessly. “We don’t do paperwork for this.” She refers to the community.

“We just gossip efficiently here.” Someone else adds from behind you.

“And loudly,” another voice adds.

“But almost always with snacks,” a third adds.

You turn, trying to find the source of all of the voices at once. And practically collide with a woman holding a paper plate out. The dark circles under eyes make you think she either works in healthcare or is too emotionally drained.

“Shoko,” she says. “Eat something before all the elderly think you’re being impolite.”

“M’not trying to be impolite,” you protest, taking the plate from her hand.

“You’ve been standing in a single spot for too long,” Shoko answers.

“M’overwhelmed,” you shrug. “There are too many desserts.”

“No such thing,” a voice says immediately.

“Sounds like a fake problem,” another agrees.

You open your mouth to argue, but get cut off almost immediately.

“Don’t even bother to defend it,” Shoko says. “If you explain, they’ll just ask more.”

Too late.

“So where in the city are you from?”

“No…why’d you come here?”

“Did Eleanor tell you how grueling the winters are?”

“Do you cook?”

“Do you mind loud noises?”

“Do you lock your doors?”

You blink. Shoulders tensing. “I…”

Mai watches the way your eyes keep flicking around the table. From dessert to dessert. Voice to voice.

“Yeah,” she hums to herself. “Okay. You’re gonna short-circuit. Can read it on your face…has anyone ever told you how expressive you are?”

“M’not…”

“You are,” she cuts in. Hooking a finger into the sleeve of your sweater. “Alright everyone, let her breathe for a bit.”

Theres a few audible groans and protests, but Mai is dragging you outside before anyone could even bother you further.

The night air is a bit cooler than earlier. And it smells like grass and a possible fire pit a few blocks away. You blink, shoulders finally dropping.

You exhale. Long. Slow.

Mai leans against the wooden porch railing like its the best seat in the house.

“Okay,” she claps her hands. “Time for orientation.”

Your brows furrow. “Orientation?”

“In order to survive that room? Y’need orientation.”

She nods her head toward the community hall. “Alright. Let’s just do a rapid rundown, yeah? You don’t even have to remember everything, but faint knowledge helps.”

She points at the glass window. “Mrs. Kamo.”

Your eyes follow her finger. Glancing at Mrs. Kamo as she fixes her dessert display by maybe a centimeter.

“Mom. Boss. Practically the emotional backbone of this town.” Mai smiles. “She doesn’t raise her voice. But she doesn’t really need to, y’know? She’s the anchor of this place. Feeds half the town. Raised her kids, helped raise others.”

“Is she…is she, like…judgy?”

Mai smiles. “Silently. Probably constantly. But if she offers you food, you’re usually safe.”

You hesitate. Nod slowly. “She offered me food…more than once.”

The corner’s of Mai’s lips curl. “Yeah…okay. Then you’re noticed.”

She points to a cluster of people inside. Laugher and voices overlapping against one another.

“That’s more of Kamo family,” Mai says. “But we’ll come back to that.”

Mai’s eyes track the room through the glass. “Okay…so you see that woman guarding the coffee machine like its her child?” She asks.

You squint. “Yes.”

“That’s Ema. She sells honey. Like actually sells honey. So if she asks you how you take your coffee..it’s never small talk. That’s her way of figuring out if she can trust you.”

You nod.

“Black coffee’s never the answer.” Mai continues. “She’s convinced black-coffee drinkers are nothing but people who have something to hide.”

“That’s…uh, interesting.”

Mai points again, “Flannel guy.”

You follow her finger and see a tall man with sharp lines and broad shoulders. The kind of build that comes from years of lifting and fixing. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And someone in front of him is talking fast. Gesturing their hands all over the place. He doesn’t interrupt.

“That’s Nanami.” Mai continues. “Roof guy.”

Your brows raise. “Roof guy.”

“Roofs…gutters…honestly? any time you have an issue with in your house.” She says. “He’s the one.”

You hum. Keeping your eyes on him. And as if he senses something, Nanami glances up and straightens a folding chair from collapsing.

“And he’s…good at it?” You ask.

Mai rolls her eyes. “He’s the reason majority of the houses in this town are still standing.”

Your mind glimpses to your own house. The porch that slightly dips. The faint creak of the floor boards. The way the window in the master bedroom rattled from the wind.

“I probably need him,” you say to yourself.

Mai smiles. “Everyone does. Eventually, at least.”

Her gaze slides back to the window. Scanning.

“Shoko.” She says. And your eyes find her. “Clinic. Long shifts…bad sleep. Has no patience whatsoever. And if she calls you an idiot or something mean, she likes you.”

You blink.

“See the fork-wielder over there?” Mai asks. You nod. “That’s Aunt Keiko. Don’t argue with her unless you want to lose.”

“She looks like she enjoys to argue.”

“Oh, she does,” Mai laughs. “She once argued with Noritoshi for an hour whether a hot dog was a sandwich.”

Your brows scrunch. “Noritoshi?”

Mai nods her head toward a younger man. Dark hair tied back, posture rather rigid. “Noritoshi Kamo…Comes through when he can. Always polite.”

Someone claps Noritoshi on the shoulder and he jumps. Then bows his head with a small smile.

“Is he always that…tense?” You mutter.

“He grew up fast,” Mai shrugs. “He’s got a good heart though.”

A younger kid then comes running through the room, practically colliding with Noritoshi before steadying himself.

You laugh.

“That’s Yuji. Youngest. Sweet. He’s loud. Eats insanely fast like the food will run away if he doesn’t consume it within a second.”

“He’s cute.”

“Yeah,” she smiles. “If he’s ever quiet, you should panic.”

“They all seem close.” You say.

“They are,” She breathes. “The Kamo family knows how to read a room. When to push. When to pull. When to just…be there, y’know?”

She glances at you. “They don’t do temporary very well,” she adds.

You watch as Mai’s gaze wanders along the room. Slower. Like she’s checking for someone, but can’t find them.

“I guess he’s not here tonight,” she says casually. “which is honestly rare. But he must be working late”

You glance at her. “Who?”

Mai hums. “Choso. Kamo family.”

The name registers. Not with importance or anything. But you’ve heard it one already today. June mentioned it earlier like it was some form of common knowledge that you have to know.

“The mechanic?” You ask.

“Yeah,” Mai nods. “Garage on Maple. Works terrible hours for no reason. Practically lives there. He doesn’t ever stay long. But he usually comes just to make sure his mom’s okay.”

Your attention sharpens. “He checks on her?”

“Always.” Mai says. “Choso’s one of those people who everyone knows, but no one actually knows…if that makes any sense.”

You tilt your head. “It does.”

“Keeps to himself mostly. Can be a bit of a grump,” Mai continues. “But if you break down on the side of the road or need something, he’ll show up. No questions or lectures. Just fixes it.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is,” she confirms. “Anyways, if you need car help, go to him. If you don’t, m’sure you’ll meet him eventually.”

You glance at everyone inside the community hall for another moment. And it looks less overwhelming now.

“This place is kind of…a lot.” You confess.

“Yeah.” She agrees. “But its a good kind.”

You nod.

“Ready to head back in?” She asks.

“Yeah.”

-

By day nine, it seems the town has faintly decided that you’re no longer a newbie. Just someone who’s recent instead.

No one officially says it like hey, no longer a newbie huh?, but you can tell. And you’re not sure if it’s better or not.

But regardless, it feels like progress.

It shows in small ways. Like how people don’t bother asking how long you’re staying for anymore. In the way you made breakfast for June the other morning. Though, she’s still the one who barged into your house in the wee early hours of the morning. Rummaged through your fridge (which actually has groceries this time around) like it was her’s. Nonetheless, you made her breakfast.

You also stopped feeling like a guest in your own house. The porch is slowly but surely looking less and less like a project each day. Your shoes kicked off by the entry table. The frog themed mug you got for your birthday a few years ago saying born to yap, forced to work is flipped upside down in the sink.

So when you step onto the porch this morning, it doesn’t feel like you’re having to prove anything to anyone or even yourself anymore. You’re just…here. Doing it.

You’ve changed into an spaghetti strap tank top (one that you don’t care about…but then again, you don’t really own one that you do care about), slightly faded and worn from so many washes over the years. It’s probably a bit smaller than when you originally bought it, but you don’t care about it.

You still need to get majority your shit from your old place in the city.

Just…not yet. Not yet.

You glance around the porch, an tell yourself that you’ll sand just one more section of the railing before taking a break. Then you do another section. And another.

And another.

The sun rises high in the sky now. The heat growing. Sweat gathers slowly at first that you pay no mind to it. Until it’s almost undeniable.

You are sweaty. Your arms are burning. And your thighs feel warm as you wipe your hands along the front of your denim shorts.

“…okay, okay.” You mutter to absolutely no one but yourself. “Break…definitely need a break.”

You lean your head to one side, stretching your neck. Then, you roll your shoulders a bit until the ache eases just a tiny bit. Sweat slips down your spine, all sticky and slow. And you’d swear the heat has practically crawled right into your brain. Causing your patience to wear thin. Not because anything’s going wrong. In fact, nothing’s changed at all.

You’re just hot. And a bit tired. Maybe a little bit over it as you stare at the spots of the railing that still need to be sanded.

You let out a deep sigh. One that should help reset your body, ease your annoyances.

It doesn’t. Not even a tiny bit.

You push open the front door (which is still lampshade fucking red by the way) and step inside. The AC doing wonders, but not nearly enough for you.

You try not to think about the color on purpose anymore. You swear. And to be honest, you never really tried to (who would?). But your brain insists on keeping the memory alive because its borderline evil and wants to taunt you when you’re already down apparently.

You close the front door a bit harder than necessary.

Wiping a hand down your face, you head right to the kitchen. Right to the kitchen sink to turn on the water and splash some on your face. Excess water slips down to your elbows, down your neck. You don’t bother to wipe it.

You shut off the sink, lean against the counter as you let your head tip forward for a moment.

“Break,” you remind yourself. “S’just the heat. M’fine.”

But then your eyes drift to the supplies stacked near the wall of the side door.

Paint cans. Brushes. Sandpaper.

You blink. Step closer.

“No,” you groan.

You lean down, looking at the stack of supplies like maybe you just hid some from yourself for later. Like it was some game. But you didn’t. And there isn’t a single sheet of sandpaper left. Just random scraps that would probably just make your frustration burn brighter.

Now, you’re aware that a real break would probably include sitting down. Maybe a few minutes on the couch. But your brain absolutely refuses to forget that the porch is right there. Half-sanded. Half-done. Practically yelling finish me, finish me.

So you glance at the supplies once more, roll your eyes. And then you’re reaching for your keys dangling on the hook by the side door.

The door sticks for a short moment when you pull to yank it open. Only to add to your irritation. And outside, the heat only feels worse. Like it wants to provoke you to do something totally and completely out of character on purpose.

You head to your car with your shoulders a bit tenser than they should. Hiss softly when you reach for the door handle, only for it to be hot under your palm. Then, collapse into the driver’s seat.

You put the keys into the ignition. Turn them.

The engine stutters.

You frown. Try again.

RRRRRRRRRK-WHHHHHHR

“Don’t even,” you warn. “M’really not in the mood for this. Please please.”

Another turn of the key.

CLACK—WHHHHR—RRRRRKKK

Your fingers tighten a bit harder around the wheel. Head falling forward to rest on top of it, eyes shut.

“Okay…okay,” you say to absolutely no one but yourself. Maybe to the dust sitting on your dashboard. “We’re gonna do this one ore time. Just once. And if I get you on, I promise I’ll take you to the shop. Y’can even get that super super expensive oil since I skimped the last time, baby.”

You turn the key again.

The engine catches. Barely. But it catches.

Your eyes fling open. “Oh my god. You’re…alive. Did y’hear me?”

It answers with a loud, unpleasant sound. That should have you more concerned, but you’re too excited…too proud that you were able to get it to turn on, that you ignored it. At least until you pulled out of your driveway.

Because the sound it’s making is definitely not good. Not even subtle either. In fact, it’s a noise that you’ll probably put in the top three of never wanna fucking hear again.

But you promised to take it to the shop. Promised it that expensive oil, which you claim is a scam. But hey, who are you to take back on your words?

You put the windows down…because surprise the AC isn’t even working. And the vibration of the car is outright sending pulses through your arms whenever you accelerate.

“We’re fiiiine…s’fine, right?” You whisper.

You are not fine.

The car rattles whenever you tap the gas. Squeaks whenever you press the brake. Makes a terrible noise whenever you turn the wheel.

“Do not,” you emphasize. “Do not embarrass me like this.”

It doesn’t listen.

If anything, it rattles louder.

And you have to roll through the town at a speed that’s pathetically slow (not that the speed limits aren’t already stupid slow).

Someone waves from the sidewalk. Another smiles at you.

“That doesn’t sound good, sweetheart.” Another older woman (who is not June) calls out. You muster a bright smile out the window.

“S’just vintage.” You lie through your teeth. “I can handle it.”

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease.” You mutter to yourself. “Just a tiny bit further, baby. I’ll treat you so well after this, remember?”

The garage on Maple comes into view. Like its your salvation. Or something desperately close to it. You signal early. And turn early too, but you don’t care.

You roll into a spot. Let it sit for a moment. And then sharp rattle hisses.

Silence.

You sit there. “…unbelievable,” you mutter.

When you step out of the car, you shut the door gently. Almost encouragingly maybe. Like the kindness of how soft you close its door will convince it to come back alive.

It doesn’t.

You circle the car with your hands on your hips. Head tilted as you try to take it in from different angles. Like maybe…just maybe you’d be able to uncover some hidden secret if you look close and hard enough.

“Well?” You ask. “S’there anything you’d like to share with the group today?”

Nothing.

You sigh. And because you’re a person that likes to so called”commit to the bit”, you pop the hood. Though, you have no idea what you’re really looking at.

The latch clicks. Hood creaks open. And a blast of heat simmers at your face. Causing you to lean back almost instantly.

“Oh!” You laugh. “Okay. You’re hot. Noted.”

You brace a hand on the edge and lean in anyways. Narrowing your eyes at the insides of your car like its something you can learn to recognize (you can’t). Sweat drips down your spine again and a few strands of hair stick to your cheek.

You reach in.

Immediately pull your hand back.

“Oh…fuck,” you hiss. “Still hot. Still very very hot.”

You glance around the lot, expecting someone to be pointing and laughing at you like hey, look at this idiot. But no one is. Of course.

Because you’re in a small-ass town…at a shop that looks like its not even open.

“Are y’supposed to vibrate like that?” You ask no one but the engine before you.

Silence.

“Listen, s’not like I need the whole explanation, yeah? Really just need you t’stop screaming and hissing at me like that.”

You wipe at the sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand. Probably leaving a trail of dust behind. Definitely leaving a trail of dust.

And you’re just about to try again. Purely observational…no more touching this time.

“You’re gonna burn yourself.”

You yelp.

Straighten your back too fast. Bang your elbow on the hood.

“Ah…shit,” you groan. Clutching at the sore spot of your elbow with a laugh. “Okay. Wow. Didn’t anyone tell you its rude to creep up on a person like that? You could’ve warned me or like I don’t know…cleared your throat. Maybe, make a noise.”

You turn.

He’s standing….close.

Not looming or crowding you. Or anything like that. He’s just there. Close enough that you can register the warmth coming off of his skin. The faint smell of grease and oil but also a hint of soap.

And fuck. He’s hot.

It’s not even something you slowly realize. More like a sharp fact hitting you right in the face.

He stands a little diagonal to you. Hand resting on the edge of the car hood like he knows exactly how hot it is without needing to test it.

Broad shoulders. Solid stance. Still as fuck.

You take note of his hair pushed back into two ponies. Dark and thick. Pushed out of his face. And how he’s tall in a way that isn’t showy.

His eyes flick to your elbow first. Which is already turning a little pink beneath your fingers at the spot where you clutch. Then to the engine, then back to your face. Slow. Like he’s assessing the situation. Assessing you.

Maybe cataloguing it.

And you hate that your first thought isn’t even about the car.

“You shouldn’t touch it,” he says.

You blink at him, then snort. Fingers trailing over your elbow again. “Yeah, well…in my defense, it was definitely screaming at me first.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away either. Just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether you’d do it again if he turns his back to you.

You would.

“You’re just gonna burn yourself,” he repeats. Voice a bit quieter.

And the way his voice drops does nothing helpful to your focus.

You shift your weight onto your other leg. The awareness of how close he is growing. And suddenly, its like you’re hyperaware of everything. Of how your tank top is clinging uncomfortably to your skin and ribs. Of the literal dust streaked along your thighs and probably now cheek. Of how you’re standing here totally looking like an idiot.

Great.

You start talking again. Because you think if you stop you might actually just think about how close he is and that just feels like a terrible idea.

“Okay,” you nod to yourself like you just learned something important (you kinda did). “So today we’ve learned that one: engines are hot. Physically and if we’re referring to mine…emotionally too.” You gesture at the car. “Two: I should probably never be left alone with them. Like ever.”

A beat.

“Three: I…” You stall.

Because somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny squeaky voice of reason pops in. Oh. He’s like…kinda grumpy. Or maybe totally grumpy.

But not mean or scary. Just quiet. Like the kind of guy that doesn’t waste words. And that silence isn’t something he ever feels the need to fill in or smooth over.

Which is unfortunate, because filling in silence is practically your birth right.

“…talk when you’re stressed,” a random voice cuts in from behind. “Yeah. We can tell.”

You blink. Turn halfway toward the voice.

And then there’s a guy (one you definitely don’t recognize from the community hall that one time) standing right inside the doorway of the shop, wiping his hands on an already dirty rag. Eyes squinting from the sun. His posture is relaxed, and he looks exactly like the kind of guy who definitely knows every single person in town. And definitely knows that you’re recent.

“Oh thank god,” you breathe. “An audience.”

He grins. “You new-new, right? Heard all about you.”

“Nine days,” you shrug. “Still learning who knows who and all that.”

“I’m Eso…” He nods. Tilts his head. “You’re at Eleanor’s place, right?”

You blink. “Uh…yeah.”

“Whole town noticed when someone hot moved into a dead lady’s house.”

You cough. Choke on air. “M’sorry…what?”

Eso laughs almost instantly. Like he was hoping this is the reaction he’d squeeze out of you. “I mean, m’just repeating words that were already said by others.”

“By others? Who?”

He lifts a finger in the air. Then shrugs like this is normal. “Old Man Kaito saw you standin’ on the porch the other day. Would not shut up about it.”

You groan. “Please don’t say more.”

His grin widens. Sharpens at that. “Kept sayin it’s a sin against God to let someone like you sweat through a tank top.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Eighty-two by the way.” He confirms a question you didn’t even ask.

Eso then clicks his tongue. Eyes bouncing between you and Choso.

“See, this is what m’not getting though,” he jerks is chin at you. “She’s out here lookin’ exactly like Kaito said the other day…sweaty, flushed, tank top hanging on for dear life…and you didn’t even both to offer our lovely customer water or AC?”

“There’s AC?”

“M’busy.”

You say at the same time. Choso doesn’t even look up from under the hood.

And to be fair, he is busy. Both his hands are braced beneath the hood. His forearms flexed as he is clearly trying to adjust something within the engine bay. Grease is smudged along his forearms.

Eso scoffs. “Busy, my ass Cho. Forgive me, shortcake. Sometimes my brother is a bit of an asshat. You’ve got two hands, y’know.”

Cho. Your brain momentarily trips over the nickname.

So this is Choso.

Choso tightens his jaw. Twists something under the hood. “Yeah and an engine that sounds like s’gonna die.”

You lift a finger at Eso. “In his defense, she was screaming.”

“Aw, shortcake.” Eso looks at you. Then back at Choso. Lips curling. “Congrats. You’ve already got the hot new girl defending you.”

You blink. Cheeks dusting pink.

Choso exhales through his nose like its his lifeline. Reaches for a rag and wipes his hands once. And then is busying himself under the hood like you and Eso are just something he can tune out with no issue whatsoever.

Eso steps toward you. Lowering his voice toward your ear like he’s telling you some top secret information. “He’s like this, y’know. Head down. Fixes things. Sometimes forgets people have bodies and lives.”

“M’literally standing right here,” Choso grunts.

“Yeah,” he shoots back. “And she’s melting.”

You laugh, fanning your neck with your hand like it’ll miraculously cure your heat exhaustion. “I…I wouldn’t say melting. Maybe more like dissolving. But slowly…nothing I can’t handle.”

Choso pauses. Glares at Eso until Eso throws his hands up in defeat and saunters back into the garage.

And then he’s straightening himself to look at you properly. Quick and efficient. Like he’s glancing at a car part. Your sweat covered skin. Tank top clinging to your ribs. The layer of dust clung to your thighs. Cheeks dusted pink from heat and probably embarrassment too, honestly making you look a little too soft.

He clears his throat.

“…Inside,” he says while stepping past you. “You’re done standing out here.”

He reaches the door first, pushes it open. Braces his arm against the glass. And the gesture is something automatic. Like he’s done it thousands of times without having to think (he probably has done it for all customers you think).

You follow him. Ducking beneath his arm. Shoulder brushing against his chest. Barely. But its still enough to have your skin tingling in its wake.

“Sorry,” you say instantly. Because of course you do. All pretty soft looks, all too sweet voice, and kind.

He stiffens for a quick moment. But relaxes his body just as fast, his jaw tightening instead as he walks in after you.

The shop office is cool. AC humming low like background noise. Radio playing some old rock music that you havent listened to in a while but definitely know.

You sigh with relief. A bit dramatic. Fanning at your neck as you push your hair back.

From further into the garage, Eso’s voice shouts…”Drink water, shortcake!”

You snort. “M’getting there!”

Choso doesn’t comment. Just moves past you toward the small counter, crouching behind it for a moment. And then popping back up to set a cold water bottle onto the countertop in front of you.

“Here,” he says.

You blink. Smile softly. “My hero.”

He nods. Like he doesn’t even know what or how to respond.

You twist the cap off. Take a long sip.

Then another.

Your shoulders dropping almost innately, tension and heat melting right out of you. You let out a soft, unguarded sound before you can even think about it. A half sigh, half hum of relief and content.

“Oh my god,” you mumble. “That’s…yeah..that’s helping for sure.”

You lean against the counter, eyes falling shut for a moment. Like the cool air and cold water just gave you ten more additional years of life.

Choso is still.

Paused.

Gaze lifting without even meaning to. Flicks over you in the quick, professional way he’s been doing. But this time: there’s nothing mechanical in the way he does it. Nothing to diagnose. Nothing to fix. Just you…flushed, damp, tank top soaked, head tipped slightly back as you drink water, and little soft hums pushing past your lips unsolicited.

He looks for a little too long.

Turns away. Immediately.

Picks up his clipboard. Adjusts it. Shuffles a few papers on it around. Busies his hands. Jots some stuff down.

“You should…” he starts. Stops himself.

Clears his throat.

“Drink all of it,” he finishes. Nods once at the end of his words. Voice rather even. Neutral.

You open one eye. Smile with your lips around the bottle. “Yes, sir.”

He huffs. Scribbles something down with more pressure than he normally does.

And if only you’d been paying him proper attention at the time, you might’ve…might’ve not missed the way his ears turned just a little pink before he gave you his back.

You lower the empty bottle to the counter. “Okay,” You start. And Choso can’t help but notice how your voice somehow sounds even brighter than before. “Since m’no longer at risk of dissolving…”

Choso sets the clipboard down. “Your car’s not going anywhere today,” he says. Blunt. “Steering belt’s definitely worn. Mount looked a little loose. And that noise y’heard…I gotta look more into it.”

You wince. “Sounds…aggressive.”

“It is,” he agrees. “I’ll need a few days. Two…maybe three. I’ll know more once I can pull it apart.”

You nod. “Okay.”

And that seems to surprise him. He would’ve expected some form of tantrum like most people do when they’re told they won’t have their car for more than a day.

“You’ll need a ride,” he adds.

“Done and done,” you hold up your phone. “Mai’s on her way to rescue me from my poor and stupid decisions…which seems like a daily occurrence at this point.”

He hums. Satisfied.

From the Garage, Eso shifts toward the doorway. Arms crossed. “Y’still with us, shortcake?”

You grin. “Hydrated.”

He nods approvingly. “Good. Also…there’s a bonfire by the creek a few blocks from here tomorrow…if y’feel like meeting more people who already know too much about you.”

You laugh. Head falling back a bit. “I’ll…consider it.”

“So that’s a yes.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder as you hear the sound of Mai’s car pulling up.

“Thanks,” you say. Voice softer. “For the water. And not letting my car explode on me.”

He nods. “I’ll call you.”

“Okay,” you smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

You hear Mai call out as you push the door open.

“So,” she yells, “did your car die or did y’just kill it finally?”

You laugh. “I did nothing to my baby.”

You glance back into the shop once you slip into the passenger seat. Choso’s already busy again. Head down. Shoulders set.

Mai drags your attention back to her.

“Okay first of all…you smell like sawdust and sweat.”

You laugh. “How rude, Mai.”

“Second,” she continues while pulling out of the lot. “You cannot go home and keep working on that porch. You need a shower. Like a real one.”

You look at yourself. She isn’t wrong.

“And third,” Mai adds. “You need a new manicure.”

You laugh. “I know, right? My poor cuticles are pissed at me.”

Day nine.

Somehow already feels like its part of a routine.

taglist: @alebrasil0101 @specialgradehoe @slytheraylor @lost-in-horrorland @partyinthebackroom @sxpphirek @alnoorim @clamousera

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs