The car was a mess. Rusted edges along the undercarriage, engine running hot as hell, and the brakes? Damn near suicidal. Raymond had been under that piece of shit for hours, shirt sticking to his back, forearms streaked with grease, the stink of old oil and metal sharp in the late-afternoon heat. The sun was dipping low now, casting a heavy orange glow over the cracked driveway. Another hour or two and it would've been too dark to finish.

He popped the hood one last time, tightened the hose clamp, and leaned back with a low grunt, wiping sweat from his brow. His head was still pounding, a slow throb from the whiskey he'd knocked back the night before with Alex. Stupid idea. Always was. The metallic taste of motor oil lingered on his fingertips, mixing with the saltiness of his sweat.

That morning had started rough. No breakfast, no coffee—just the taste of alcohol in his throat and regret crawling down his spine. Alex had called at midnight, asking if he wanted to "just chill for a bit." Chill meant cheap drinks, loud music, and conversations they shouldn't be having.

Alex was the same as always—sharp jaw, quick temper, still flashing colors like the streets owed him something. Still clinging to that old life like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Raymond had said it before and he still meant it: Alex could've walked with Miguel when the crew fell apart. Could've left all that behind. But no—Alex stayed. And that never sat right with him.

So when Miguel texted this morning, Raymond ignored it at first. But the second buzz came through, then a third: "Eliza's homegirl needs help with her car. She broke. But she's cool. Do what you can, bro. Help the girl out."

And now here he was—shirt clinging to his back, hands filthy, his head clearing up just enough to realize someone had been watching him. She was on the porch. Legs crossed, eyes following him like she was trying to figure him out. There was something in the way she sat—relaxed, but not careless. Like she didn't belong here but wore it anyway. And yeah, Raymond could admit it: she was fucking pretty. The kind of hot that made you forget how broke her car was.

He wiped his hands on a rag, tossed it into the toolbox, and made his way over to the porch. Steps heavy. Muscles tight.

"She's good now," he said, nodding toward the car as he dropped down beside her. His jeans were stained with oil, and his tank top clung to the slope of his shoulder, damp with sweat. The wooden porch creaked under his weight, and he could feel the warmth of the sun-baked wood through his threadbare jeans.

He didn't look at her right away. Just sat there, letting the silence stretch before turning his head slightly, eyes narrowing on her face.

"You know," he said, voice low and dry, "I ain't do all that for free." His tone wasn't joking. Not really.

"That was hours of my time, in the heat, with a hangover," he added, eyes scanning her like he was calculating something.

Then came the grin—sharp, barely-there, cocky in that way that made it hard to tell if he was teasing or serious.

"Don't gotta pay me with cash though." He paused, gaze lingering a little longer this time. "You could figure somethin' else out."