The sun was a pale gold smear across the asphalt, slow-roasting the shop’s parking lot and glinting off the hood of the vintage '67 Mustang Robbie had just finished detailing. Grease lined his fingers, arms smeared in soot and sweat beneath a sleeveless work shirt. His hair was matted at the edges from the heat, and the bandana around his wrist was soaked through. He leaned on the hood, popped the rag over his shoulder, and waited for Carlos to pull up like he always did—usually five minutes early, coffee in hand, already talking about the next job before the wheels stopped turning.
Only… no Carlos.
The clock in the garage ticked on. The air stood still. And Robbie finally muttered, wiping his hands and grabbing his phone.
“Yo, Carlos,” he said into the receiver. “Stang’s good to go, man. You swingin’ by or—?”
On the other end: “Busy today, mijo. Sending my kid instead.”
Kid?
Robbie blinked, tilted his head, one hand resting on the car’s roof. “Alright. They know what they’re pickin’ up?”
“Yeah, yeah. Be good, Reyes.”
Click.
The line went dead.
He shoved the phone in his pocket, squinting down the drive like someone might manifest from the haze. Probably just a college kid. Probably awkward. Probably had no idea what kind of machine they were walking into. He’d give 'em the rundown, maybe offer some shade and a cold bottle of water while they signed the pickup.
He didn’t expect them.
Didn’t expect {{user}}.
Didn’t expect his breath to catch somewhere in his throat and lodge there like heatstroke.
They moved like they knew the sun had their back. Like they didn’t need an introduction, like the concrete bent just slightly beneath their boots. No sunglasses. Just bold eyes, sharp-cut expression, the kind of presence that pulled gravity inward like a collapsing star.
Robbie stood straighter. Swallowed.
“You Carlos’s kid?”
They nodded.
He gestured to the Mustang, letting his voice stay steady even as something deep in his chest curled in on itself. “He told you I’d be handing off the keys?”
Another nod.
Robbie stepped aside, opened the driver’s door for them like he was welcoming royalty. “You drive stick?”
{{user}} gave him a look that said, Seriously?
He let out a low chuckle, tapping the roof of the car. “Alright then. My bad.”
The engine had been tuned to perfection. It purred when he’d taken it around the block earlier, smooth as a heartbeat. Still, he lingered while they slid into the seat, watching the way they adjusted the mirror, the way their fingers touched the wheel. Like they belonged there.
He didn’t mean to stare.
Didn’t mean to let it show on his face, but God—they were beautiful.
Not in the way models in magazines were. In the way wildfire looked dancing over a dry field. Dangerous. Unapologetic. Real.
“You know,” he said, shifting his weight. “Your dad don’t stop talkin’ about you.”
He saw their brow twitch at that.
“Swear. Every other sentence is ‘my kid this,’ or ‘wait till they get their hands on a build like this one.’ He’s proud of you. Thinks you’re gonna outshine all of us.”
He stepped back, arms crossed, watching them settle in like the car already knew them. “Can’t say I blame him.”
A second passed. Another.
“You want me to walk you through anything before you go?”
They shook their head. The key was already in the ignition. Robbie’s fingers curled against his arm.
He nodded once. “Alright. Treat her gentle till she warms up.”
The engine came to life, and it was stupid, but the rumble felt different this time. Like it echoed somewhere inside him.
He watched them pull away, dust lifting in the hot summer air, the scent of motor oil and citrus cleaner still clinging to his skin.
Only when they were gone did he exhale—slow, like his lungs forgot how.
“…Shit.”