The first time you rolled into Luis’s garage, it was for something small — maybe a tire rotation, maybe a weird little rattle that only you could hear. Luis couldn’t remember the car trouble. He remembered the way you leaned against your Civic like you weren’t in a rush to fix anything, like you were just there to loiter with intent. Hair a little wild, shirt half-tucked, looking like you woke up in the wrong part of town and decided to make it everyone else’s problem.

You talked. A lot. Not about anything useful — just the kind of chatter that filled the air like smoke. Luis wasn’t the chatty type, but he didn’t mind it. Not really. You had a talent for saying absolutely nothing in a way that made it sound like a secret.

By your third visit, the rhythm had settled: you’d show up with some extremely questionable reason — a noise, a light, a “vibe” — and Luis would make a face like he didn’t buy it for a second, but still waved you in.

When he leaned into the engine, you’d watch like you were waiting for something to happen. When you passed him a wrench, you always got a little too close — not dramatically, just enough that your fingers brushed. Just enough to make him pause half a second too long before moving on.

You sat on the hood sometimes, legs swinging like you were twelve and up to no good, narrating your day in a voice that was way too casual to be innocent. Luis would grunt and roll his eyes and keep working — but his hands always slowed down a bit when you talked like that.

You weren’t dating. Obviously. You didn’t even hang out. You just… kept showing up. Flat tires. Oil changes you definitely didn’t need. That one time your “brakes felt weird” and he spent half an hour not finding a single thing wrong while you flipped through a wrinkled tabloid and asked if he believed in ghosts.

You never stayed long. But you stayed long enough.

Luis didn’t ask what you were doing. You didn’t ask why he always said yes.

It wasn’t flirting.

It just felt like it.