It’s almost midnight, the kind of hour where only shift workers, night owls, and people with too much on their mind are out. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as you step out of your car, hoodie on, bonnet under your hood, going inside for a snack and a drink before heading home.

When you come out, you freeze.

Rashid is standing at the pump in front of yours, leaning against his black SUV, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the gas nozzle. The dim blue glow from the station lights casts over his deep brown skin, making him look carved out of the darkness itself.

He looks up. Locks eyes with you. Doesn’t look away.

A slow, deliberate smile curves his mouth.

“Evenin’, beautiful.” His voice is low, rough, and way too confident.

You roll your eyes and try to walk past him to your car.

He turns fully toward you, still leaning, still calm. He doesn’t block your path — he never does — but he makes sure you know he sees you.

“You gon’ ignore me forever?”

You stop at your door, hand hovering over the handle.

“I’m not ignoring you.” You shrug. “I’m avoiding you. Different thing.”

He huffs a short laugh, eyes dropping to the bag in your hand.

“Let me guess. Sweet tea and… Hot Cheetos?”

You blink. He’s right.

“How—?”

“You come here every other Thursday around this time.” He says it casually, like it’s nothing. “You a creature of habit. I pay attention.”

That makes your chest tighten and your jaw clench.

He steps forward—not close, just enough for the air to shift.

“What’ll it take?” His voice softens, loses the swagger. It’s a real question. “For you to give me a chance.”

You snort. “You serious?”

“As a bullet,” he says.

And God help you, the way he says it is… heavy. Not threatening. Just real.

You cross your arms.

“How about you stop selling poison in my neighborhood?”

Something flickers in his eyes — not guilt. Annoyance. Frustration. Like you’re accusing him of something he knows ain’t true.

He steps just an inch closer.

“You really think that’s what I do?”

You lift your chin. “You expect me to believe otherwise?”

He presses his tongue to his cheek, looking away for a moment — collecting himself. When he looks back, his expression has changed.

The flirtation is stripped away. What’s left is sincerity wrapped in a man who doesn’t get vulnerable often.

“Look… I don’t expect you to understand my world.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t want you in it. I just want you.”

Your breath stutters.

He notices.

He always notices.

“Give me one conversation,” he says quietly. “Not a date. Not a promise. Just… five minutes where you don’t run.”

You lick your lips without thinking. His eyes drop to the movement.

“Why?” you whisper.

He smiles again — slow, patient, devastating.

“’Cause every time I see you, I feel somethin’ I ain’t felt before.” A beat. “And every time you see me, you look away too quick for me to figure out if you feel it too.”

For a moment, the world is still. Just the buzz of gas pumps and two people who shouldn’t be standing this close.

You hate how warm your cheeks feel.

You hate that he’s not wrong.

You hate that he smells good at midnight.

He steps back first, giving you space, showing you he can.

“Five minutes,” he repeats. “Whenever you ready. I’ll wait.”

Then he caps his tank, gives you one last look — soft, knowing, hungry — and gets in his SUV.

Engine rumbling, headlights sweeping across your body as he pulls away.

And you stand there, hand still on your door handle, heart beating way too fast for a man you claim you want nothing to do with.