The garage had fallen silent again.
The engine still hummed faintly from cooling, its freshly kindled heart settling into slumber after its first roar. Outside, Republic City slept in a soft hush—streetlights flickering, distant horns muffled by steel and fog. But inside this secret place, something far more intimate began to stir.
Asami stood by the workbench, her chest rising and falling slowly, her fingers still tingling from where she'd touched Kaiqok's hand. He hadn't let go since the kiss.
He hadn't wanted to.
Neither had she.
"I didn't expect that," she murmured, her voice low, velvet-soft.
Kaiqok tilted his head. "The kiss?"
"The effect of it."
He stepped closer, his golden chakra cloak dimmed but warm, casting a soft light between them. The workshop's metallic walls reflected back bits of it—glimmers, flickers, like fireflies in the dark.
"I wasn't trying to impress you," he said quietly, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. "But I hoped I would."
Asami's lips curved upward. "You built an engine with me. Most men just offer flowers."
"I can make flowers out of lava, but that felt... less meaningful."
She laughed gently, then leaned against the bench, her gaze fixed on his. "Do you always flirt with grease on your hands and sparks in your hair?"
"Only when I'm trying not to fall too hard," he admitted.
She bit her lip—just enough to make his breath catch.
"I think we're already falling."
He stepped forward, closing the small distance between them. She didn't move away. She tilted her chin up slightly, waiting. Anticipating.
The second kiss wasn't hesitant.
It was bold, heated, slow-burning like coal fed into flame. Her hands moved up to his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath his shirt—the same rhythm she'd come to recognize in their battles, in his wild power, in the way he calmed her storms.
He lifted her easily onto the workbench, their lips still locked, his chakra warming the air around them like a living fire. Asami wrapped her legs around his waist without thinking, the feeling of control slipping—but she didn't mind.
Not with him.
Not here.
Not after everything.
---
Her jacket fell to the floor, followed by the metal clips in her gloves, the ones she always wore while working. His own coat came next, slipping off his shoulders with a tug of her clever hands. Beneath it, the golden chakra markings on his skin pulsed faintly, alive with energy that responded to her every touch.
"You glow," she whispered, fingers trailing along his shoulder, tracing the path of chakra like constellations.
He pressed his forehead against hers. "So do you. Just not everyone sees it."
She pulled him into another kiss—deeper, this time. Her back arched as he trailed kisses down her neck, the heat from his breath contrasting deliciously with the cool workshop air.
Their rhythm shifted—slow at first, exploratory. Then urgent. Her hips rolled against his, drawing out a soft groan from his throat. He gripped her thighs, grounding himself in the sensation of her, in the feel of skin, spark, and sweat mixing with steel and oil.
Every movement between them was instinctual, practiced like dance, like battle. Like trust.
He whispered her name, and she whispered his in return—soft, reverent, as if she were discovering something sacred in the ruin of old blueprints and buried pain.
---
Time blurred.
The chakra around them surged, then settled.
When it ended, they were tangled in the softest cloths the garage could offer—thick old blankets from her stash, half-covered in forgotten sketches and grease-stained journals.
Asami lay on her side, propped on one arm, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. Her hair, usually immaculate, was now wild and loose, her cheeks flushed, her eyes softened.
Kaiqok lay beneath her, golden cloak long gone, replaced by the barest shimmer of chakra on his skin, his hand brushing her hip in quiet circles.
"Was this a mistake?" she asked, not looking at him.
"No," he answered without hesitation.
"I don't regret it either," she said, smiling.
"But?"
"But now everything feels... different."
He sat up slightly, brushing a kiss against her collarbone. "Then let's be different together."
Her smile grew wider. "You're dangerous when you're romantic."
"I'm dangerous when I'm not," he teased. "Romantic just makes it easier to survive me."
She nudged his shoulder playfully. "You really are impossible."
"But now I'm your problem," he replied, pulling her close again.
She didn't resist.
And when the sun finally crept through the high windows of the garage, casting golden light on the dust and dreams around them, neither of them moved.
Because sometimes, love blooms not in fields of roses, but in old garages, in-between bolts and sparks, built piece by piece—like engines.
Like trust.
Like them.