Kiyo

The shop’s small — just enough room for the machines, a cluttered bench, and a few rolling carts. The walls hum with the low buzz of equipment, and the air smells like steel and oil. You’ve worked here long enough to know every inch, every shortcut. Which is exactly why the foreman stuck the new guy with you.

He walks in with a little sway in his hips, lavender fur catching the light from the overhead fluorescents. His cargo pants are cinched tight around a very generous set of hips and thighs, and the snug uniform shirt rides up slightly when he stretches to look around.

“You must be Kiyo,” you say, watching him take it all in.

He spins on his heel, grinning. “That obvious?”

“It’s a small shop. I’d have noticed you sooner.”

He lets out a soft laugh, tail curling behind him. “Guess I’ll have to get used to working real close, huh?”

You smirk. “Better. You’ll be breathing down my neck for most of the day.”

You start showing him how to notch a straight duct with snips, hands brushing over his a little more than necessary. The workbench is only big enough for one of you at a time, so he leans in from behind to see. His breath hits your shoulder, warm and faintly sweet, and he doesn’t pull away when your arms touch.

“Am I in your space?” he asks innocently.

You don’t answer — just keep cutting. He leans in more.

“You sure? ‘Cause if I’m in your way, I could always… get on my knees.” He kneels dramatically to pick up a fallen tool, tail swaying deliberately behind him.

You shake your head with a chuckle. “Focus on the metal, Kiyo.”

He looks up at you from the floor, eyes wide and lips parted, mock innocent. “I am.”