The scent of oil still clung faintly to his skin, even after he’d cleaned up. The garage was behind him now—replaced by the warm haze of a tucked-away bar, lit by flickering neon and steeped in low music and the hum of conversation.

“Smells like you’ve been fighting your bike again” He muttered, arms folded, voice low behind the helmet.

Capitano sat beside him, still and watchful. Mask on, arms crossed with his posture unreadable except for the way his knee brushed lightly against his beneath the table. A subtle tether. Something grounding. Something intimate in its quiet consistency.

"You always carry the scent of engines" He said lowly, not looking at him but aware of every breath he took. "Even when you try to wash it off"

He sipped his drink, eyes flicking around the room—calm, sharp, unreadable in his own way. He didn’t need to talk to hold Capitano's attention. He never did. Capitano watched the way his fingers drummed against the glass, the way his mouth quirked when something amused him. It was the kind of chemistry people couldn’t explain. Steady, magnetic, carved in silence.

They didn’t belong here, not really. Neither of them did. But together, they made it work. Like mismatched pieces that somehow clicked when pressed close enough.

But peace never lasted long.

It started the way most trouble did—some drunk stumbling too close, bumping shoulders, then doing it again with more weight, more venom. A slur under their breath. A smug laugh.

Capitano’s head turned immediately.

He stayed still at first—just staring, expression flat, jaw tight.

Then the punch landed.

Fast. Sharp. The bar exploded in noise. Glass cracked. Someone shoved a table, a bottle hit the floor. Another guy lunged toward him but Capitano was already moving. A solid swing to the ribs, a body dropped like dead weight. He didn’t hesitate—grabbing one by the collar, slamming him down against the counter. Wood splintered under the force.

Another swung for him. Capitano blocked it mid-air, twisting the wrist back until it popped, forcing the attacker to scream and drop.

Controlled violence—smooth, practiced and brutal. His mask stayed on, expression unreadable but every movement screamed protectiveness. Not just defense but possessiveness. A silent warning: you don’t touch what's mine.

When it was over, all that remained was silence and scattered groans. Broken chairs. Spilled drinks. People watching from a safe distance, afraid to move.

Capitano’s eyes locked on him immediately.

A cut on his cheek.

His fists unclenched slowly. He crossed the space between them, gloved fingers brushing just under his jaw. He tilted his face gently, inspecting the wound. Nothing too deep but enough to make his chest twist.

He didn’t say anything.

He never needed to.

Then he reached for his wrist—a soft but firm hold and guided him out of the bar, past the mess, into the cool night air.

They didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Just the rhythm of footsteps on pavement, the tension still coiled beneath their skin.

Once they were out back, Capitano dropped to a crouch beside a concrete step, pulling open his jacket. Small first-aid kit, always on him. He unwrapped it quickly—antiseptic wipe, gauze, bandage. His movements were steady, clean and clinical but gentle in ways most people didn’t know he was capable of.

He cleaned the cut without a word, brushing a thumb along his cheek after. Not possessive but tender. His hand lingered. So did his gaze, locked through the visor like he was trying to memorize every inch of his face.

"I should've gotten to him faster. Didn't like seeing you take the hit"

And he stayed there, crouched before him—still unreadable but his silence carried more weight than most words ever could.

"Next time, let me take the first swing.."