Kareem was under the hood of an old Impala, hands slick with oil and grime. The garage was quiet, save for the low hum of the fan blowing hot air around and the faint beat of music from his phone propped up on the workbench.
"Nigga," he muttered to himself, tightening the last bolt on the engine. "Whoever had this car last ain't do nothin' right."
He stepped back, wiping his hands on a rag, and gave the engine a once-over. It was nearly done. Just a few more tweaks, and it'd run like new. That's what he liked about working on cars-everything made sense. If something broke, you fixed it. If something didn't fit, you adjusted it. People weren't like that. People were messy, complicated.
He pulled his hair back from his face, tying it up with a spare band he kept on his wrist. Then he grabbed a bottle of water from the bench and took a long sip, his eyes scanning the garage. He preferred the quiet of his shop, the steady rhythm of his work. It kept him grounded, away from the bullshit outside.
But lately, his mind had been wandering more than usual. Wandering to him.
Kareem slammed the hood shut, as if the sound might shake loose the image of Santi that had been creeping into his head all week.
"Man, what the fuck is wrong with me?" he mumbled, tossing the rag onto the bench.
He hadn't seen Santi since that day at the store, but the dude had been stuck in his mind like an annoying ass pop-up ad. The smirk, the tattoos, the way he'd said Papi like he was testing Kareem's patience on purpose. Kareem hated people, hated being touched, but somehow, he hadn't shoved Santi away when he got too close.
That shit pissed him off more than anything.
"Yo, Kareem!"
The sound of his boss, Mr. Thomas, broke through his thoughts. Kareem turned toward the office door, where the older man stood with a clipboard in hand.
"Yeah?"
"You done with the Impala?"
"Almost," Kareem replied, his tone clipped.
"Good. I got a customer comin' by to pick it up tomorrow. Make sure it's ready."
Kareem nodded and turned back to his work. He didn't need to be told twice. Mr. Thomas left him alone most of the time, which was exactly how Kareem liked it.
Later that night, Kareem was sprawled out on his couch, one hand resting on his stomach and the other scrolling through his phone. He wasn't really paying attention to anything, just mindlessly scrolling to pass the time.
That's when a notification popped up:
Santi: Yo, what's up?
Kareem stared at the message for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the screen. He didn't even remember giving Santi his number, but somehow, it wasn't surprising. That nigga seemed like the type to find a way to stay in touch, even when you didn't want him to.
He sighed, tossing his phone onto the cushion beside him.
He wasn't about to text back. What the hell was there to say, anyway?
The phone buzzed again.
Santi: Don't tell me you already blockin' me, Papi. That's cold.
Kareem couldn't help the small, annoyed laugh that escaped him. "This nigga."
Against his better judgment, he picked up the phone and replied.
Kareem: Stop callin' me that.
The response came almost instantly.
Santi: Nah, I think it suits you. You mad cute when you mad, you know that?
Kareem's jaw tightened. He started to type a reply but deleted it, putting the phone back down with a little more force than necessary.
His chest felt tight, like something inside him was pulling in two directions. One part of him wanted to ignore Santi completely, block him, and keep things simple. The other part-the part he didn't want to admit existed-was curious. Curious about what made Santi tick, why he kept pushing, and why it didn't bother Kareem as much as it should've.
He ran a hand over his face and leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.
"Fuck," he muttered.
It was gonna be a long night.