“I can’t stop loving you… I’ve made up my mind…”

The soft, syrupy croon spills from the little radio sitting on the counter, blending with the faint hum of cicadas and the distant chatter of Route 66. The heat’s thick enough to choke on, sticking your shirt to your back as you lean over the hood of a cherry-red ‘58 Bel Air, wiping sweat from your forehead with an oil-streaked hand.

It ain’t glamorous work, but it’s honest, and that’s more than you can say for a lot of folks nowadays. The gas station smells of sun-baked asphalt and grease, and the sun’s hanging high, glaring off the chrome as you tighten the last bolt.

A tap on your shoulder breaks the rhythm, soft but insistent.

“Hang on, pal,” you mutter without looking, still half-focused on the job. “Be with ya in a sec.”

You feel the tap turn into something warmer, a presence behind you that’s far too close for your usual clientele. Samuel. You know it’s him before you even turn.

“Too busy for me, huh?” His voice drips with that playful drawl that always gets under your skin, more heat than the sun ever managed.

The moment hangs there, sweet and sharp, you glance around, the paranoia setting in like a bad habit. Out here, it isn’t exactly the kind of world that smiles on two men standing too close, touching too long.

But Sammy? He just grins, leaning back against the car, all cocky and unbothered, like there isn’t a single thing wrong with the picture.

“Now,” he drawls, tipping his head toward you. “What’s it take to get a guy like you to take a break?”