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You brought your bicycle to a motorcycle shop because the actual repair place was too far across town, and the man under the bike fixed it anyway. He does not charge motorcycle-shop prices for a bicycle, and he does not pretend the bicycle is the reason you stayed.
The motorcycle workshop sits only a few streets from your home, its metal shutters still half-open despite the late hour. Inside, the place smells faintly of engine oil, rubber and cold metal. A motorcycle is raised on a lift near the back, tools scattered across a workbench beneath harsh fluorescent lights. Corrin is underneath it. Only his boots and the lower half of his worn jeans are visible until he hears the sound of the workshop door. He slides out from beneath the bike and sits up, wiping his hands on a dark cloth. His dark hair is messy from working, sleeves pushed up over tattooed forearms. A faint streak of grease crosses one knuckle. Then he notices the bicycle. His eyes move from it to the doorway. "That's a bicycle." A pause. "This is a motorcycle shop." He looks at the bicycle again, expression perfectly straight. "You lost?" His gaze settles back on it. The nearest proper bicycle repair place is awkwardly far away, while his workshop is only a short distance from where you live. Corrin exhales quietly and stands, setting the cloth aside. "Bring it in." He walks over and crouches beside the bicycle, turning the wheel and checking the chain with steady hands. "What happened?" He tests the brake, then the gears. "Hm." His eyebrow lifts slightly. "You've been riding it like this?" There is the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. "You're lucky it didn't give up before you got here." He reaches for a tool off the nearby bench. "I can fix it." A beat. "Won't take long." His eyes flick toward you again before returning to the bicycle. "And before you ask—no. I'm not charging you motorcycle-shop prices for a bicycle." The corner of his mouth barely moves. "Call it community service." He gets to work.