#black oc

"I do!" Angie grinned. "I'm magic."

"You are not."

"I raised Sophia."

"You survived Sophia."

"Same thing."

The women laughed together.

Angie gently rocked the baby without thinking, the movement came naturally to her after years of motherhood.

Natalie watched her for a minute. "You're really good at this."

Angie's smile softened. "I've had practice."

The blonde hesitated before speaking. "My mom's been... different."

Angie looked up. "Different how?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "Better."

"Yeah?"

"She's actually answering my calls."

"Thats good." Angie smiled.

"And she's been here every other day."

"I'm happy for you."

Nat nodded slowly. "I think she's trying."

"I think so too." Angie looked back down at Sophie, rocking her softly. "She's supposed to come by my place sometime this week."

"Yeah?"

"She's been helping me sell my dad's place. I don't even know if I want to anymore."

Natalie couldn't help but smile. "My mom loves you."

"I wonder sometimes."

"Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Pretend like you don't know she's obsessed with you."

Angie let out a scoff. "She's not obsessed with me."

"Yes, she is."

"No."

"Since I can remember it's been, 'Let's invite Angie over.' 'Does Angie need dinner?' 'Has anyone talked to Angie?' 'Go check on Angie.'"

"Nat..."

"It was always Angie, Angie, Angie."

"Okay," Angie said carefully with an awkward chuckle. "You don't have to get upset."

"I'm not upset." Natalie insisted.

The baby stirred slightly between them. Both women immediately lowered their voices.

"I'm just saying..." Natalie whispered fiercely, "...you're her favorite."

Angie frowned. "Her favorite what?"

"Daughter."

Angie stared at her for a second before letting out a chuckle. "Are you serious?"

"A little."

"Sugar."

"I'm just saying."

She shook her head. "DD loves you."

"I know that."

"No, she does."

Natalie's shoulders slumped. "I know she loves me." She picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "But you're her favorite daughter."

The words hung in the room. Angie looked at her best friend for a moment before she carefully transferred Sophie into the bassinet next to the couch. Once she was sure the baby was settled, Angie scooted across the cushions until she was sitting beside Natalie and nudged her shoulder gently. "You wanna know something?"

"Hm?"

"When my dad kicked me out...I thought your mom hated me."

"What?"

"I did."

"I thought every time she yelled my name I was about to get thrown out."

Natalie smiled.

"You remember that first night at dinner?"

"Oh my god." Angie groaned immediately. "I dropped the mashed potatoes."

"You dropped the entire bowl."

"I cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes because I thought she'd had enough of me."

Natalie burst into laughter. "She wasn't even mad!"

"I didn't know that! She's unpredictable!"

"You can say that again."

"I don't think she loves me more than you," Angie said gently. I think..." She reached over and took Natalie's hand. "I think she loved me differently because she saw a scared little girl who'd already lost her mom."

"...I never thought about it like that." Natalie leaned over until her head rested against Angie's shoulder. "I was kind of being an asshole."

"No. Maybe a little."

"A medium amount?"

"I'll give you medium."

They both laughed.

After a minute, Natalie glanced up. "So..."

Angie recognized that tone immediately. "So..."

"You didn't just come over here to psychoanalyze my mommy issues."

"I didn't."

"What else is going on?"

Angie looked down at their joined hands. She tried hard to fight her grin.

"...Why're you smiling like that?"

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

Angie laughed softly. "There's something I need to tell you."

"What?"

"I've been waiting for the right time."

"You are freaking me out."

Angie took a slow breath. "Richie and I are together."

"...Together?"

"We're dating."

Natalie stared at her. "What? I-, I don't even-, For how long?"

"Since opening night."

"Opening night!" Natalie stopped herself before she got too loud and looked toward the sleeping baby. She lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. "Opening night?"

"We wanted to make sure it was real before we told anybody."

The blonde looked at her best friend's face. Then a slow smile spread across her own. "You love him."

"I do."

Natalie reached over and wrapped her in a tight hug. "I'm so happy for you."

"You are?"

"Yeah. It's a little weird to think about, I'm not gonna lie. But I'm happy." Natalie pulled away just enough to look at her. "You've had enough heartbreak for a lifetime. I think it's about time something good happened to you."

Angie smiled and hugged her again. "Me too."

🤍

"Marcus." Jess called from the expo. "Still waiting on ten, chef."

"Ten seconds, chef! Angie?"

"Okay, shit. One sec!" She sped up the finishing touches on her dish before walking to Marcus. "Hands!"

"Thank you. Get the rims?"

"Yeah." She began to wipe the excess chocolate off the rims of the white bowls.

"Surprise on fifteen, walking." Richie announced as he took the plate of Italian beef from Tina. "Behind."

"Gimmie that." Carmen reached for it.

"No. Carmen, do not fuck with me."

"Give it to me."

"Carmen, this is important! Do not fuck with me!"

"Give it to him so he can relax." Angie looked behind her at the arguing men.

Richie took a deep breath and reluctantly handed the plate over to Carmy. He sliced the sandwich into four pieces and grabbed a blue food tray, setting the pieces down in a circle.

"Just, please, T?"

"Chef." She handed him a small bowl to put in the middle.

"Thank you." Richie took the tray and took it out of the kitchen.

"Angie, waiting on those scallops."

"Fuck me. I'll be back." She went back to her station and started on the next batch of scallops.

"Carm?"

"I gotchu, Marcus."

"This isn't working, chef. I need help."

The blonde looked up at him and nodded. "Heard, chef."

"T, fire another beef!" Richie walked back in. "Ange, that fucking scallop is a fucking banger! Bravissima, chef!"

"Speaking of scallops, how're we looking?" Jess asked again.

"Two minutes, chef."

"Yo, Faks! Showtime. Marcus, Rene."

They all followed Richie as everyone else continued working.

"Alright, final ticket coming up. Thank you, chefs. Every second counts. Great pace."

After the final orders had been taken from the kitchen, everyone wandered outside to see the surprise Richie had planned for the guests. Fake snow covered the tables and the ground as it fell down onto their heads.

"How did you do this?" Angie asked.

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." Richie responded. "And I really don't wanna do that."

"Understood, chef." She chuckled. "Understood."

The morning wasn't a beginning. It was a continuation. Shawn’s house didn’t wake up; it simply was, already breathing in the grey, pre-dawn light that seeped through the windows. The light was soft, diffused by the morning marine layer, and it painted the sprawling, manicured backyard in shades of silver and muted green. His house was a study in controlled chaos, a space that had learned to absorb the high-impact energy of its owner. Dark woods, matte black, deep greys formed the foundation, but the life was in the details: a PS5 controller resting on a stack of Architectural Digest magazines, a collection of vintage Raiders and Seahawks jerseys locked in a glass case like holy relics, and a thick, chunky-knit blanket thrown over the back of a leather chair that had seen its share of late nights.

But this morning, the stillness felt different. It felt… hollow.

Shawn stood in his kitchen, the ritual wasn’t coffee. He’d never been a caffeine-and-hustle type of guy. His mornings were for the slow burn, the unraveling. He reached for the small, dark-wood box on the granite countertop, its surface smooth and familiar under his fingertips. Inside, the weed was pungent, a deep, musky scent that cut through the clean smell of the house. His hands, big and capable, moved with the efficiency of someone who had done this countless times, breaking up the dense, sticky flower, tamping it just so into the blunt wrap. The ritual was a meditation, a prayer to start the day.

He lit the joint with the flick of a butane lighter, the flame catching the end with a soft whoosh. The first inhale was deep, drawing the smoke down into his lungs, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest, loosening the muscles in his back. He held it, then let it out, a slow plume that ghosted toward the high ceiling. He leaned against the counter, his big frame swallowed by a grey hoodie, the fabric worn soft. The weed was supposed to quiet the noise, but the noise had grown a name now.

Micah.

It was a goddamn problem. He was damn near 40, a retired millionaire who’d forgotten more about high-pressure situations than most people would ever know. He was supposed to be in his own lane, chilling, enjoying the spoils of a career that had tried its best to break him. But his mind, this traitorous organ in his skull, kept drifting back to her. To the woman with the smart mouth and the glasses who called him "Shawny" like she’d known him his whole life. To the way she’d clowned his age at that cookout, her eyes dancing with mischief.

He took another drag, the smoke a bitter truth on his tongue. He replayed their last conversation, not the words, but the feeling of it. The easy way they sat on her couch, the low light from the TV painting her face in blues and golds. He remembered the specific, almost unconscious way she’d push her glasses up her nose when she was about to say something corny, something that would make him laugh from deep in his gut. He thought about the way she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, the trust in that gesture a warm, heavy thing that had settled right over his heart.

And his own house, this fortress of solitude he’d built for himself, felt a little less like a sanctuary and a little more like a box without her in it. The silence used to be peace. Now it was just… empty. He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to his footsteps echoing a little louder, to the quiet hum of the refrigerator sounding like a complaint. He wasn’t used to her.

It’s just friendship, nigga, he told himself, the thought a stern lecture in his head. It’s a routine. She’s cool. That’s all. But the lie was thin, cheap tissue paper.

He wasn't interested in her. He told himself that every damn day. He was just… comfortable. Right. And he was the Pope. The lie was so transparent he could see right through it, and what he saw on the other side was scary.

He walked over to the giant sliding glass door that opened onto the backyard, his reflection a dark silhouette against the morning light. He saw himself, his locs tied back in a practical way. He saw the permanent scowl etched around his mouth, a defense mechanism so old he forgot he was wearing it. And he wondered, not for the first time, what she saw when she looked at him. Did she see the retired player? The quiet, private dude with too much money and too much time? Or did she see something else? Something softer?

He wondered if she saw the soft spot he’d already carved out just for her, a space in his life that was shaped exactly like her laugh, like the way she said his name. The thought was so real, so immediate, it made him want to punch the goddamn window. Instead, he just took another hit from the joint, the smoke a familiar, bitter anchor in a sea of uncertainty. He was a goner.

The echo of Shawn’s house faded, replaced by the warm, chaotic symphony of Micah’s. Her house wasn't a statement; it was a conversation. Earthy neutrals, bookshelves overflowing with paperbacks and hardbacks that threatened to spill onto the floor, candles in various states of melt on every surface. The air smelled of beeswax, old paper, and the distant, salty kiss of the ocean drifting through the open windows. She was curled on her deep couch, a fortress of throw blankets and cushions, a laptop open and glowing on her lap but forgotten, her phone pressed to her ear.

“And then he had the nerve to tell me my gumbo needed more salt,” Mabel’s voice crackled through the phone, a warm, familiar thunder. “The nerve of this man. He ain’t even from Louisiana.”

Micah laughed, an uninhibited sound that made her whole body relax deeper into the couch. “Mama, you love that man. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Love is a choice, baby,” Mabel shot back, and Micah could picture her perfectly, one hand on her hip, the other gesticulating with a wooden spoon. “And sometimes that choice is not to put somebody in a headlock when they criticize your cooking.”

The comfortable rhythm of the conversation, the easy back-and-forth, was a balm. It was the kind of talk that settled the noise in her own head, the noise that came from staring at a blank screenplay for too long. But Mabel, being Mabel, was never content to stay in one conversational lane for too long.

“So. You seen my boy lately?”

And there it was. Micah felt a tiny, tell-tale flutter in her chest, a betrayal she immediately stamped down. She cleared her throat, aiming for a casualness she didn't feel. “Shawny? Yeah. We hung out the other day.”

“Just… hung out?” Mabel’s voice was laced with a knowing syrup that was impossible to evade.

Micah giggled. “We’re friends, Mama. Just friends.”

“Mmhmm. That’s what you say now,” Mabel hummed, a sound of skepticism. “Friends don’t look at each other the way y'all did at the cookout.l”

“Like what?” Micah asked, her voice a little smaller than she wanted it to be, her fingers suddenly finding the frayed edge of the blanket very interesting.

“Like you the last glass of water in the desert and they been walking for forty days.”

Micah’s laugh this time was a full-throated thing, a desperate attempt to shatter the truth of Mabel’s words with sound. It was too much, too close. She opened her mouth to deliver a witty, self-deprecating rebuttal, something about how Shawny was more like a faulty air conditioner on a hot day—annoying but necessary—but the words never left her tongue.

From upstairs, a sound like someone falling through the roof ripped through the quiet of the house. A CRACK, followed immediately by the heavy, percussive thud of what sounded like a hundred books hitting the hardwood floor at once. It wasn't a small sound. It was the sound of an ending.

“What the hell was that?” Micah yelped, pulling the phone away from her ear and staring up at the ceiling as if she could see through the floorboards.

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line, a pause so perfect it had to be rehearsed. Then, Mabel’s voice returned, smooth as silk and full of a deep, knowing satisfaction.

“Sounded to me like something that needs fixin’.” Another pause, a dramatic breath. “And you know who loves to fix things…”

The echo of Mabel’s prophecy hung in the air as Micah stared at her phone, the screen dark and mocking. Fixin’. The word landed like a sentence. She could call a handyman. She could Google “how to build a bookshelf for dummies.” She could even, God forbid, try to fix it herself with the dusty, unused tools in the garage. But she didn’t do any of those things. Her thumb hovered over his name for a full ten seconds before she pressed it, the decision already made, the justification a flimsy afterthought she’d build later.

Back in his kitchen, Shawn was taking the last drag from his joint, the smoke a ghost in his lungs, when his phone buzzed against the black granite. The vibration was sharp, insistent, cutting through the hazy quiet. He didn’t need to look. The universe had a sick sense of humor, and it was clearly listening to Mabel. He glanced down. Her name lit up the screen: Micah. Underneath it, a picture he’d taken at the cookout, her head thrown back in a laugh, her eyes squeezed shut. He swiped to answer before the second buzz, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“My bookshelf just committed suicide,” her voice came through, a frantic, frustrated melody. “You busy?”

He didn’t even have to think. The answer was on his lips before she finished the question. “Nah. I’m on my way.” He hung up, not waiting for a thank you or a protest. It wasn’t a negotiation. It was a fact.

Twenty minutes later, he was pulling up to her house. The contrast between his world and hers was a slap in the face. Her place was a warm, chaotic embrace. Earthy neutrals, bookshelves that weren’t just overflowing but actively spilling their guts onto the floor, candles everywhere, some burned down to sad little nubs. He grabbed his toolbox from the passenger seat, the worn leather handle familiar in his hand, and walked up to the door. He was wearing a white tank top that did nothing to hide the thick, heavyset muscle he’d earned in a career of high-impact collisions. The tattoos that ran from his shoulder to his wrist and across his back were a roadmap of his life, stories inked into his skin he rarely told. His locs were tied back low, keeping the hair out of his face, out of his way. He looked like a man who could fix anything, or break anything, depending on his mood.

The door swung open before he could knock. There she was. Micah. A little frustrated, a little flustered, her hair a mess of a fuzzy ponytail, her glasses slightly askew. She was smiling, but he could see the tension.

And he felt it again. A gravitational shift. It was the same feeling he got on the field, right before the snap, when the whole world narrowed down to the man in front of him and the job he had to do. This was his job now. Her.

As she opened the door wider, letting him into the warm, scented chaos of her home, her mind was racing, a frantic, scurrying thing. Why did you call him? Of all the people on the entire planet, why did you call him? She could've called a professional, someone who’d charge her an arm and a leg and be done in an hour. She could've watched a YouTube tutorial, some chipper guy named Chad who’d make it look so easy she’d feel like an idiot. But she hadn't. She'd called him. The second she'd heard his voice on the phone, that low, “Yeah,” a knot in her stomach she didn't even know was there had just… dissolved. She liked having him around. A little too much.

She watched him walk in, his big frame seeming to swallow the light in her entryway, and felt a flutter in her chest, a wild bird beating against her ribs. She told herself it was just annoyance. Annoyance at the mess, at the inconvenience, at the audacity of her bookshelf choosing this exact moment to stage a mutiny. Yeah, that’s what it was. Annoyance. Definitely.

She led the way, her bare feet padding softly up the wooden stairs, and she could feel his eyes on her back like a physical touch. She knew he was watching. She knew the exact moment his gaze dropped from her shoulders to the sway of her hips in the loose, worn shorts she’d thrown on. The air behind her grew thick, heavy with a silent, masculine appreciation that made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. It was a look that was less about lust and more about… consideration. Like he was studying the lines of her body, memorizing the way she moved, filing it away for later. She fought the urge to sway her hips a little more, to give him something more to see. Instead, she straightened her spine, a subtle act of defiance that she knew he’d notice. When they reached the top of the stairs, she felt his presence shift, his eyes lingering a moment too long on the curve of her ass before he forced them back to the task at hand.

“Damn,” he said, his eyes taking in the scene upstairs. The splintered wood, the scattered books, the general state of disarray. “It really did commit suicide.” He set his toolbox down with a heavy thud, the sound final and reassuring.

“Told you,” she said, crossing her arms, leaning against the doorframe, trying to look put-upon. “It was a cry for help.”

“Well, your cry for help is about to get answered.” He didn’t look back at her, but she could feel the weight of his presence, the undeniable man-ness of him filling up her space. And she hated, absolutely hated, how much she was going to enjoy it.

He stood there for a long moment. The office was littered with the casualties: a small avalanche of paperbacks, a hardcover collection of Octavia Butler stories, her worn copy of Kindred. The bookshelf itself, a beautiful dark wood thing she’d found at a flea market, lay in two pathetic pieces on the floor. It looked like a fallen soldier. He grunted, then squatted down to get a better look at the break.

And that’s when it happened. A sound. A sound so loud, so undignified, it seemed to echo in the sudden silence of the house. It was the echoing pop of bone and cartilage, the sound of a tree limb giving way under its own weight. A glorious, catastrophic knee crack. Micah was on it in a heartbeat. She didn’t even think; it was just instinct, a reflex she’d developed for clowning him. She leaned against the doorframe of her office, crossing her arms, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “You good, pops? Need a second? Should I call an ambulance or just a chiropractor?”

He didn’t even look up at her, just kept his focus on the splintered wood. “Ain’t shit wrong with my knees.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, drawing the sound out, savoring it. “Sounded like a tree limb snapping in a hurricane. You sure you don’t need your joint supplements before you start handling heavy machinery?” He finally looked up then, pushing himself up from the squat with a grunt. He tried to be serious, he really did. He aimed for a stern, intimidating look, but his mouth betrayed him, the corner twitching into a smirk that put his purly whites and golds on full display. “Talk like that gon’ have me take my belt off.”

It was a hollow threat, and they both knew it, which was exactly why she could laugh and walk away toward the kitchen, tossing the words over her shoulder like confetti. “You need that to hold your back brace up, old man.”

He heard her chuckle as she left the room and headed toward the kitchen, a warm, rumbling sound that settled in his chest. This was their foreplay. A dance of jabs and parries, a verbal sparring match where the affection was in the rhythm, in the way they knew each other’s timing like they’d been doing it for years. In the kitchen, she grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and filled them with ice and water, her movements a little too quick. She was feeling it. That flutter in her chest she’d tried to lie to herself about. It wasn't annoyance. It was a humming current of awareness, a thrum of attraction that was getting harder and harder to ignore.

When she walked back into the office, he was already working, measuring a new piece of wood with a tape measure, his brow furrowed in concentration. She set the glass down on the nearest flat surface—a stack of books—and leaned back against the doorframe again, just watching. She watched the way his muscles bunched and shifted under his skin as he worked, the detailed portraits of his tattoos. She watched the way his locs, tied back low, sometimes slipped a little, a dark strand or two falling forward to brush against his jaw. She watched the way his big hands handled the tools with gentleness, a confidence that was mesmerizing.

He felt her eyes on him. It was like a sixth sense, a constant, low-level awareness of where she was and what she was doing. Every time he risked a glance up, she was there, a knowing smirk playing on her lips, her arms crossed in a way that pushed her chest up just enough to be a distraction. He’d have to look away, a smile tugging at his own lips, forcing himself to focus on the numbers on the tape measure, on the grain of the wood, anything but the woman who was slowly driving him crazy.

He was trying to measure a cut when he felt her presence creep up closer behind him, a soft warmth. “You need anything, old man?” she whispered, her voice a teasing breath right next to his ear. He jumped, just a little. A reaction he couldn’t stop. He cleared his throat, trying to sound tough and unaffected. “Nah. I’m good. Go… write something or whatever it is you do.”

“Or whatever it is I do?” she repeated, a laugh in her voice. “Is that what you think I do all day? Whatever?”

“Yeah,” he said, turning to face her, trying to regain the upper hand. He leaned in, just a little, using his height, his size, the sheer presence of him. “You just sit around and think up smart-ass things to say to me.”

She didn't back down. She just tilted her head, her almond-shaped eyes sparkling with mischief. “Only on days that end in ‘y’.”

He was so close he could smell the lemon in her hair, see the tiny flecks of gold in her deep brown eyes. His gaze dropped to her mouth for a half-second, a mistake. He saw her lips part, just slightly, a subconscious invitation. And he felt it then, the pull was so strong. He wanted to close the distance. He wanted to see if she tasted as sweet as her words. He wanted to…

The sound of his own saw buzzing to life was the only thing that saved him. He pulled back, turning abruptly to the wood, the sound a welcome, jarring interruption. “Stand back,” he grumbled, the words rougher than he intended. “Gonna make a cut.”

She didn't say anything else, but he could feel her retreat, could feel her go lean against the wall again, giving him space. And as he pushed the saw through the wood, the scent of sawdust filled the air; he knew that moment scared the shit out of him, and he may be in way over his head.

The high-pitched whine of the drill filled the small office, the sound of work being done. After the charged moment by the saw, a new rhythm had settled. Shawn worked, and Micah “supervised.” She’d dragged a comfy armchair from the corner of the room into the doorway of the office, settling in with her laptop balanced on her knees. She was supposed to be rewriting. Instead, she was watching him.

He moved with a mesmerizing purpose; he measured, he drilled, he lifted the heavy new pieces of wood into place, his muscles bunching and releasing beneath the skin. Micah played her part, a willing and able assistant, handing him the drill when he held out a hand, holding the level steady against the wall, offering unhelpful commentary that always made him chuckle.

“You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be retired, you’re surprisingly… competent,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed.

“That’s ‘cause I ain’t retired from being useful. Unlike some people I know who just sit around and direct traffic.”

“Hey,” she protested, “I’m supervising. It’s a very important job. It requires a keen eye and a sharp tongue.”

He stifled a chuckle. But the constant physical proximity was a low-level hum of electricity that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. His arm brushed hers when he reached for a screwdriver on the desk next to her, he had to reach past her to grab a clamp from her desk, and that’s when his chest pressed against her back for a fleeting, heart-stopping second. It wasn't just the pressure; it was the heat of him, the solid wall of his body, and the undeniable, hard ridge of his dick pressing into her ass.

She had to catch her breath, a silent inhale that she hoped he didn't notice. Her brain, traitorous thing that it was, immediately latched onto the sensation. She was definitely going to be thinking about that tonight. The air in the small space was thick, a heady cocktail of sawdust, the subtle, expensive spice of his cologne, and the bright scent of her lemon-scented candles. It was the smell of him and her, all mixed up together, a scent that was quickly becoming her new favorite.

“You’re holding the level crooked,” he said, his voice a low rumble right next to her ear.

She jumped, startled. “I am not! You’re the crooked one.”

He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that vibrated through her back. “Nah, baby. I’m as straight as they come. You just can’t handle a real man’s tools.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Oh, I can handle your tools, Shawny. Trust me. I’m just not sure your tools can handle me.”

After plenty of failed attempts at being his aide, Micah retreated to a corner of her office where she could work and still watch him. As he was securing the last support bracket, her voice cut through the drill's whine. “It’s just… she’s stuck.”

He shut the drill off, the sudden silence ringing in his ears. He looked over at her. She wasn’t looking at him; she was staring at her laptop screen, her fingers paused over the keyboard. Her glasses were on, and she was chewing on her bottom lip, a sure sign she was wrestling with something.

“She knows what she should do, what she wants to do, but she keeps doing the opposite,” Micah continued, her voice softer now, more vulnerable. “It’s like she’s allergic to her own happiness. Like the second things get good, she sabotages it on purpose. I can’t figure out her motivation. I can’t get inside her head.”

Shawn leaned against the newly constructed bookshelf, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched her. He was struck by how easily she did this, how she just opened up her chest and showed him the messy, beating heart of her creative process. She shared these pieces of her soul with him, pieces he knew she didn’t show just anyone. A surge of protectiveness washed over him. He wanted to be the person she could always be this real with. The one she called when her world was falling apart, or even when it was just a little wobbly. It was a weird feeling. He was used to people wanting things from him—his status, his strength, his money. But with Micah, she just wanted his ears.

He found himself watching her hands as she talked, the way they gestured in the air as she tried to shape the thought. He watched the way she pushed her glasses up her nose, watched the way her almond-shaped eyes would light up when she got passionate about a character’s motivation. He was a goner. He knew it. He also knew the character she was talking about was her. He saw the parallels, the need to self-sabotage, the fear of happiness. But he wouldn't call her on it. That wasn't his place. Not yet.

He just pushed off the bookshelf and walked over to her, stopping just in front of her chair. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.

“Maybe she’s not allergic,” he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. “Maybe she’s just waiting.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes searching his. “Waiting for what?”

“Waiting for somebody to show up and make it safe for her to stop running.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and dense. “Waiting for somebody to show up and make it safe for her to stop running.” It wasn't a line. It wasn't a platitude. It was a diagnosis, and it was so accurate. Micah felt the air leave her lungs; she looked up at him, and the walls she so carefully built, the witty deflections, the aloofness—it was all crumbling under the steady, unwavering weight of his gaze. He saw her. And she wasn't ready to be seen.

She snapped her laptop shut with a click that was too loud in the quiet room. "I need a… drink," she mumbled, pushing herself out of the chair. Her movements were jerky, desperate. She needed space. She needed air. She needed to get away from the man who had just put her entire soul under a microscope with one simple sentence.

She fled the office, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor, heading for the sanctuary of the kitchen. She didn't make it. She was just passing through the living room, a shadow of a woman trying to escape her own heart. She didn't hear him behind her when his hand caught her by the arm, his big hand wrapping around her bicep, and he pulled her back.

“C’mere,” he said. He didn't give her a choice. He just pulled her back against his chest.

She laughed, but it was a breathless, shaky sound. "For what?" She tried to sound playful, but it came out like a plea.

He didn't answer, he just wrapped his other arm around her, caging her in. His big-ass hands spread across her stomach and her side, her back was against his chest, her head tucked neatly under his chin. He was so warm, so solid. He smelled like sawdust, and a faint smell of weed. She could feel his heartbeat against her back, a slow, steady rhythm that was at odds with the frantic hummingbird beat of her own heart.

The silence stretched. It wasn't awkward. It was… settling. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place, a lock finding its key. She stopped struggling. Stopped trying to run. She just… breathed. Her body, which had been a knot of tension since his diagnosis, began to soften, to mold itself against his. It was a quiet surrender, a silent acknowledgment that this was where she was meant to be. After a minute, she tried again, her voice softer now, a whisper. "You done?"

His voice was muffled in her hair, a low rumble she felt more than heard. "Nope."

She sighed, a sound of feigned exasperation, but her body betrayed her. She turned into him, and her own arms came up, her hands wrapping around his forearms, holding on. Her cheek pressed into the soft cotton of his tank top, and she breathed him in. This was his love language, this unapologetic touching. These random, long hugs that were about comfort and more about calming his nerves. "Why you always do this?" she murmured into his chest.

"Do what?"

"Hold people hostage."

He chuckled. "You ain’t complainin’."

And just like that, the intensity shattered. A nervous, goofy giggle escaped her lips, a sound she immediately tried to stifle by burying her face deeper into his chest. "That's 'cause your hostage-taking skills are surprisingly on point. Like, if this whole… you know… if things don't work out, you could have a real career in abduction. Five stars on Yelp."

He barked out a laugh, a real, deep-throated laugh that vibrated through his chest and into hers. "Shut up," he grumbled. He squeezed her tighter, a reflexive, affectionate gesture. "You're so damn weird."

"Me? You're the one who decided to play 'human pretzel' without a heads-up," she shot back, her voice muffled by his shirt. "I was just trying to get to the kitchen for a snack. Next time I'll bring a negotiating team and a flare gun."

He loved this. Loved the way her nervous energy manifested as a goofy, rambling monologue. The weed he smoked this morning had finally caught up with him and stripped away the intense, brooding facade and left him with this need for contact, for the simple, undeniable reassurance of her body against his. It was his version of a security blanket. And she, bless her chaotic heart, didn't understand it, but she would let him touch her without him ever having to say a word.

"Snack? Is that what you're calling it now? I thought you were just fleeing the scene of my emotional vulnerability. Very smooth, by the way. Very gangster."

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her glasses slightly crooked on her nose, her eyes bright with a mixture of amusement and affection. "Oh, I'm gangster," she said, trying for a tough look and failing spectacularly. "I'm a straight-up thug. Don't make me pull out my… uh… very sharp… sarcastic wit." His lips twitched. He couldn't help it. Then there was his other love language, these boyfriend tendencies that kicked in without his permission. He saw a stray piece of lint on her shoulder, and his hand moved to brush it off before he could stop himself. He saw the way her glasses were digging into the side of her nose, and he had the insane urge to take them off for her, to clean them with the hem of his shirt like some old-timey sitcom dad.

"You need a new shelf, Micah," he said, his voice softer now, the teasing gone, replaced by a quiet, serious note.

Her playful demeanor softened. "I know," she whispered. "But I like this one."

He looked at her, really looked at her. At the woman who had just been talking about being allergic to her own happiness. He saw the fear hiding behind the witty banter, the uncertainty she tried so hard to cover up. And he felt that surge of protectiveness again, he wanted to be the one to build her a shelf. A whole house of shelves. A whole life of sturdy, unbreakable things.

"I'll build you a new one," he said, the words out before he could stop them. "A better one. One that won't try to kill you."

Her eyes searched his, and for a moment, the goofy, nervous energy was gone. "Shawny…"

"Nah," he said, cutting her off, his voice gentle but firm. "Don't 'Shawny' me. Just… let me. Okay?"

She just nodded, not trusting her voice. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, a soft, lingering kiss. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't passionate. It was a promise. A silent vow that he would be the one to show up, the one to make it safe, the one to build her a world where she didn't have to be afraid of her own happiness.

This was new territory—the most physical contact they’d had since stumbling into this… friendship. The hug, the forehead kiss—it was all brand new, a language they were just learning to speak. And yet, it felt so right. It felt like a song she’d known the words to her whole life but was only just now hearing the melody. Micah put her head back against his chest, the steady beat of his heart a drum she could lose herself in.

Oh my god, he kissed my forehead, she thought, a frantic, nervous energy buzzing just beneath her skin like he’s in a damn Nicholas Sparks movie. Who does that? Who just… forehead-kisses a woman they’re supposedly just friends with? It’s so… gentle. It’s so… Shawny. And it’s messing with my entire wiring. I’m supposed to be the one who keeps things light. But a forehead kiss? That’s a checkmate move. That’s a ‘I’m thinking about your future and your emotional well-being’ move. And now I’m thinking about his lips, which is a very, very dangerous place for my brain to be.

He held her, his chin resting on the top of her head, and his own mind was reeling. Damn, he thought, his arms tightening around her. I ain't been this close to a woman in… shit, I don't even know how long. And I definitely ain't kissed one on the forehead since… ever. What the hell is wrong with me? I swear my mama put a root on me. That’s the only explanation. She been plotting for years, and now her voodoo is finally kicking in. I’m out here building shelves and kissing foreheads and talking about feelings and shit. This ain’t me. This is some other nigga. Some soft, poetry-reading nigga my mama created in a lab.

He felt her relax against him, a full-body surrender. He knew that he was a goner. And deep down, he was completely okay with that.

The hug ended not with a sudden parting, but a slow, reluctant dissolve. He let his arms fall away first, and she felt the sudden coolness where his body had been. The air between them felt charged, heavy with everything that hadn’t been said. Without a word, they drifted to the couch, a silent agreement to find the comfort of the living room. The TV was already on, some old black-and-white movie flickering with silver light, the dialogue crisp and sophisticated. Shawn dropped onto the couch first, his big frame sinking into the cushions with a weary sigh. He grabbed the remote and propped his feet up on the coffee table, the picture of a man settling in for the night.

Micah stood there for a moment, her body still humming from the hug, the forehead kiss, and his words. She looked at him, at the space he occupied on her couch, and the part that was tired of running just wanted to be close to him. So, without even thinking. She just dropped into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, her back against his chest, her legs draped over his thighs.

He grunted, a sound of surprise that was swallowed by the sudden, overwhelming presence of her. His eyebrows shot up, his mouth falling open slightly in an almost comical way. For a big man who moved with confidence, this was a complete ambush. His body adjusted immediately, his legs spreading to accommodate her weight, his back settling into the couch cushions as if this was the only logical conclusion. His arm came around her and settled on her side, the weight of it warm and heavy. The dialogue on the TV droned on and on, and the other sounds that mattered were the low hum of the air conditioner and the soft, steady rhythm of their breathing.

Tonight was a goddamn minefield of surprises. First, the crack of his own damn knee, a mortifying soundtrack to his advancing age. Then that hug, that chest-to-chest, soul-baring hug that had felt more intimate than anything he’d experienced in years. And then the forehead kiss, a gesture so tender it felt foreign on his own lips. And now, Micah. Just… dropping into his lap like he was her personal chair.

As he began to relax, his thumb started tracing slow, absent circles against her ribs, just below her breast. The touch was barely there, a ghost of a sensation, but it was everything. Her breathing faltered for the briefest moment, but she felt it, and she knew he felt it. She focused on the movie, on the black-and-white drama unfolding on the screen, pretending she didn't notice the way his touch was setting her skin on fire.

She shifted, a subconscious movement to get more comfortable, a little wriggle of her hips against the worn denim of his jeans. It was an innocent movement, a simple quest for a better position. But as she moved, her ass pressed directly, firmly, against his dick. He went rigid for a half-second, his entire body clenching as he forced himself to relax, to breathe through it, to get his body back under control. But she felt it. She felt the sudden, hard heat of him, the way his entire body tensed. Her body stilled. Every muscle, every nerve, froze in place. She was sitting on his dick. The thought was so loud, it was like a scream in her own head. A deep, mortifying blush started at her chest and crept up her neck, burning her ears.

“Sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a puff of air in the quiet room. The word was small and pathetic, and she hated herself a little for it.

He didn't say anything. He just watched her from the corner of his eye, his jaw tight. He watched the way her throat worked as she swallowed, the way she kept her eyes glued to the TV screen, refusing to look at him. He could see the heat blooming in her cheeks, the way her pulse beat a frantic rhythm in the hollow of her throat. A small part of him wondered if she did it on purpose. Suppose this was just another one of her moves. He watched her, his gaze searching, looking for any sign, any flicker of mischief that would betray her. But all he saw was a flustered, embarrassed woman who was currently trying to melt into his lap and disappear.

The air crackled with a new tension, a thick, heavy heat that had nothing to do with the summer weather. The movie was forgotten. The only sounds were the low hum of the TV and their breathing, which seemed to sync up in the quiet room, a shared rhythm of unspoken awkwardness.

The air in the living room had thickened, Micah was acutely, painfully aware of him. The solid warmth of his body at her back, the way his size seemed to swallow her, making her feel small and protected. Every time he took a breath, she felt it. Every time he made a quiet, grumbling comment about the plot of the old movie, the low rumble of his voice vibrated through her entire body. She felt safe with his arm wrapped around her, his hand a heavy, grounding weight on her hip.

She avoided his eyes at all costs, staring at the flickering black-and-white screen as if her life depended on it, but she wasn't seeing the glamorous actress in her tailored suit. She was seeing the memory of his hands on her, the feeling of his chest against her back during that hug. And then, unbidden, came the ghost of her ex. She thought about how he used to watch her, his eyes too intense, too possessive, as if he were trying to own her soul instead of just sharing her space. A familiar flicker of panic pricked at the edges of her calm. But with Shawn, it was different. It wasn't possessive. It was… present. He was just there, a steady presence that didn't ask for anything she wasn't ready to give.

Shawn was also hyper-aware of every move she made. The way her hair smelled, a mixture of coconut oil. The soft fabric of her thin T-shirt. The subtle, mesmerizing rise and fall of her chest with each breath. His hand on her hip was no longer just a casual touch; it was a point of focus, a grounding force in the rising tide of his want. He wanted to kiss her. The thought was no longer a vague whisper; it was a clear command in his head. He wanted to turn her face toward his, to taste her, to see if she tasted as sweet as her words. But he didn't. He couldn't. This friendship, this new, easy, comfortable thing they had stumbled into, was too precious and too fresh to risk on a whim. So he just sat there, battling himself, and tried to pretend like his heart wasn't beating frantically.

The silence stretched, comfortable but charged with a thousand unspoken things. His thumb was still tracing those slow, hypnotic circles on her side, a touch that was both a comfort and a form of torture. She needed to move. Her leg was falling asleep, and the position was becoming unsustainable. She shifted again, a careful maneuver to find a more comfortable spot, trying her best to keep her hips perfectly still, which was a ridiculous, impossible task. Every tiny movement sent a sense of awareness through her, a reminder of exactly what she was sitting on. She was hyper-aware of his every breath, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her.

And he was just as aware of her. He was curious about a thousand things he had no right to ask. He wanted to know what she tasted like. He wanted to know what sound she made when she was really, truly turned on. These were not questions a friend asked. These were the kinds of thoughts that got a man in trouble, the kinds of thoughts that could shatter the easy, fragile thing they had built. She was wondering, too. She wondered if his hands were always this gentle, or if they could be rough. She wondered if he’d ever look at her the way he looked at a playbook. She wondered what he’d do if she just… leaned in. As she settled, her head turned, her cheek brushing against the rough stubble of his jaw. Their faces were inches apart. His eyes met hers, and the world fell away.

She was the one who broke. She couldn't take it. She looked away as embarrassment began to flood her cheeks. She cleared her throat as she sat up a little straighter, creating a sliver of space between their bodies. He felt the shift instantly, felt her retreat. He pulled back just enough, clearing his own throat, the sound awkward and loud in the quiet room. The moment hung, heavy and unresolved, in the air between them.

As he watched her retreat, an unfamiliar emotion surged through him. Jealousy. It wasn't directed at some other man. It was directed at the ghost he couldn't see, the memory that had made her flinch. He saw the flicker of panic in her eyes right before she looked away, and he knew that it wasn't him she was scared of. It had to be someone else. Some other man who had looked at her like that, who had made her feel like a thing to be watched instead of a person to be seen.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was a rough growl that was laced with an aggressiveness he couldn't hide. "Who hurt you, Micah?" The question was a direct hit to a wound she thought was well-bandaged. She didn't look at him. "What?"

"You know what I'm talkin' about," he pressed, his arm tightening around her just a fraction, a silent demand for an answer. "Who were you thinking about that made you look away just now?"

The jealousy was a straight-up fire in his chest, a nigga’s burning need to know, to find whoever the fuck did it and erase them from her memory for good. He wasn't just some friend. He wasn't just some nigga who fixed shelves. He was the man who was already planning how to make her feel safe enough to stop running. And he couldn't do that if he didn't know what she was running from.

It was a two-part thing. First, he needed to make sure that whoever it was didn't have a chance to come back and hurt her even more, to try and take her from him. But more importantly, he had to make sure they didn't try to take her from his mama. Mabel had been plotting on this for a decade, and Shawn wasn't about to let some ghost from the East Coast fuck up his mama's master plan. He wanted to make sure she was safe, safe in a "ain't nobody gonna mess with you on my watch" type of way, safe in a "I want to get to know you more" type of way. It was about making sure the path was clear for whatever this was between them to grow.

The question hung in the air between them, sharp and dangerous. "Who hurt you, Micah?" For a long moment, she didn't answer. She just stared at the TV screen, then she let out a long, slow breath, a sound of surrender.

"It was a long time ago," she said, her voice quiet, flat. "Back when I was still on the East Coast. A guy I dated." She didn't look at him. She couldn't. "It's not… It's not a story I want to relive, Shawny. He just… he liked to watch. Too much. All the time. It felt… performative. Like I was always on a stage, and he was the only audience member, and he was always waiting for me to mess up. It's stupid. It's over." She shrugged, a gesture that was meant to be dismissive but was anything but.

The words were sparse, but they were enough. He understood. It wasn't about the physical act; it was about the psychological weight of being constantly observed, of being stripped of her own agency in her own life. The jealousy in his chest didn't vanish, but it softened into protectiveness. He wanted to replace the memory of his possessive gaze with a thousand different, gentle touches. He didn't say anything else. He just tightened his arm around her, a silent promise. I'm here now. And I don't watch to own. I watch to see.

The moment passed, but the air between them was different. The unspoken was now out in the open. They didn't talk about it; they just went back to watching the movie, but the tension was no longer just simmering; it was alive, a shared understanding that bound them more closely together than any kiss. It was an awkward intimacy, more potent than the accidental press of her ass against his dick. This was different. This was a slow, deep burn of connection, a quiet acknowledgment that said, 'I see your scars, and I'm still here.'

As the movie went on and eventually ended. The credits rolled, and the screen went to the main menu, a glowing, silent loop of the movie's title. In the quiet, he heard it. The change in her breathing. It was subtle at first, a softening of the rhythm, a deeper, slower cadence. Then, a soft, even weight settled against his shoulder. She must have drifted off. He didn't move. He just sat there, a statue in the dim light, with the warm, solid weight of a woman who trusted him enough to sleep in his lap.

He let the menu screen glow on, the only light in the room. As he sat there in the quiet, feeling her breathe against him, his hand resting on her hip. This was the most still he'd ever been. The most at peace. But he wasn't sure what this was, this thing between them. The slow burn hadn't caught fire. It had just settled in for the night, warm and glowing and waiting.

He looked down at her, at the way her glasses were slightly crooked on her nose, at the peaceful, unguarded look on her face. He knew that he wasn't letting this go. Not ever. He shifted slightly, just enough to press his lips to her hair, a soft, silent promise. He didn't know what the future held, but he knew it had her in it.

Thursday June 24th 2016 10:15 pm Angel Motors

CRASH

The sound of a metal control arm hitting concrete echoed through Angel Motors.

"Fuck!"

Juno didn't even bother looking up, curled up on the worn out beige leather couch in Quinn's office. Her thumb kept lazily scrolling through Instagram, completely unfazed by Connie's latest outburst.

By now, it was just background noise.

Outside the office door, Rae Sremmurd's "this could be us" rattled through the large black garage speakers, the overhead fan squeaked every ten seconds. This was another Thursday routine before a Friday night race.

Connie cursed underneath Juno's suspended Silvia, frustrated with the alignment that Juno somehow fuckd up in her last race.

"What the fuck was that?"

Quinn's voice cut clean through the music. She was mid chew of her BBQ brisket from buc-ee's when she hear the crash, followed by Connie's outburst

A chorus of voices rang out answering immediately.

"Nothing."

Quinn narrowed her eyes towards the open office door.

"Uh huh."

She wiped her bbq-stained hands on a napkin before getting up to stand at the door way.

"Don't break my shit."

"...Bad-ass gremlins."

Juno snorted from her seat at the comment.

Quinn looked over.

"Whatchu laughin' at?" Quinn asked arching a brow. "Ain't you supposed to be in there helpin' 'em fix your car for tomorrow?"

"Mmcht." Juno smacks her teeth waving her off

"They'll be aight, it ain't nothing but a little alignment."

"I'm on Marco's page trying to see who I'm racing tomorrow"

"I don't know why you trying to scope. you know ci already know who you racing" Quinn rolls her eyes walking towards the girl

The girls argument cuts in from the background

"Brenley that's the wrong fucking wrench! Dumbass" Connie screams at brenley from under Juno's baby blue Silvia

"Well they all look the same"

"I asked you first a box end how the fuck you gon hand me a socket" Connie huffs at the girl in the bedazzled pink cheetah print tracksuit

Brenley looks down at her black acrylics "you ain't say that the first time"

Juno laughs while shrugging her shoulders at her friends argument before answering Quinn "I know that but I still like find out for myself"

Quinn reached over to snatch the phone from Juno's hands

"What the fuck?!"

"Yea well..." Quinn sets the phone down on her desk

"not on my watch, you fucked up yo own car now take ya lil ass in there and help em fix it"

Juno paused huffing as she stood. her skin peeling from the leather couch.

"Yea tell her get her ass in here, she ain't do nothing all night" Hartley shouts from the garage bay

"Mind yours! You ain't even helping dammit" Juno turns yelling towards the door

"Exactly just useless" baby voice cuts in from the passenger side of her Toyota

"Shut up baby!" Hartley and Connie shout in unison ————-

"Aye, aye, aye ficticia don't take your frustration out on my toolbox burra" Connie screech's at Juno from her chair

"I'm sorry I'm not trying to" Juno mumbles sliding the tools back towards the craft table

The girls were spread out across the garage. Autumns in the office looking at tomorrow's race routes, Hartley is on her laptop posting instagram stories, brenley and baby are on the carpet in the corner painting over baby's toes.

"What's up your ass anyway ?" Connie questions pushing her chair backwards to roll towards Juno until her wheels bump against her boots.

"Bro... we racin' Blackline tomorrow . I ain't in the mood for reap's annoying ass today." Juno finally confessed sitting back in her chair

Connie groans in agreement understanding her cousins frustration "Girl who you telling I can't stand that fucking kid!"

"He's always trying to tell me, ME! How to work a motherfuckin engine. Like that weak ass GT-R can hold up against my mods"

"I mean... it does—"

Connie slowly turns to Juno with a look threatening her to finish her sentence.

Juno cleared her throat

"...It doesn't."

Connie stares for a moment grumbling out a quiet "bitch" before rolling away

"You can't get mad at me for being honest" Juno guffaws

"Yea well honesty hurts, that's why I called you a bitch"

"Okayyyy rudeness" Juno drags out standing up to follow Connie around the car

"Look I'm only being honest because we put three bands up on this race, that's Three bands from each crew. Plus Marco got sponsors, side bets, and crowd commission. Seventeen stacks total. that's seventeen stacks on the line!" Juno sighs tugging on her cousins shirt to get the girl to look at her

"that's enough to get us out of this lil hole we're in. We can pay rent on the house, put some back for our books this upcoming semester, AND give some to Quinn to put back into the shop without having to tap into our actual work checks. Plus last time we raced them we got embarrassed cause baby lost to mirage's slow ass"

"Hey I heard that" baby pouts from her corner of the garage waving off brenley restless hands fanning at her toes

"Good" Brenley quips "wasted my cute ass outfit for that bum ass race, you know how long it took me to customize that fashion nova two piece"

"Man his ass cheated" baby rolls her eyes at Brenleys rant

"He ain't cheat. You wasn't focused." autumn finally speaks up standing in the office doorway Arms folded across her chest

Baby looks up at her offended by the comment

"If you actually studied the route I sent you, you would've know that median was there!" she continues pushing herself off the frame coming over to rest against Juno's Silvia.

"You're not Juno baby so stop trying to race like her and learn the routes"

Juno winces at autumns jab, choosing to ignore the hidden compliment in her words.

Connie looks over at baby solemnly in agreement

"Alright, alright ease up on baby ok? She ain't raced in weeks it was her first run back. Who knew mirages ass would actually be good for once."

Autumn sighs taking a moment to think before speaking "maybe we give her a few low rank races before we put her back in S rank money races for now"

"What?! No-" baby yells standing up but gets cuts off by Brenleys hand pulling on her arm

"Relax speedy Gonzalez, autumns not trying to pulling you out the rank, what she's trying to say is we need to get you some more practice" Brenley reasons

Baby turns towards the girls "Be foreal yall know I smoke who ever I go against in E rank races"

"WE know that! we're just saying blackline aren't E rank racers and YOU know that!" Connie speaks up

Baby turns to look at Juno waiting for her to say something to make the girls reconsider

Juno looked between Autumn and Baby biting at her thumbnail.

"Autumn ain't wrong." She sighs

Baby's face fell, the hurt visible in her expression.

"BUT" she puts her hands up in defense "...neither are you, baby we know you can drive."

"I know you blow smoke on the asphalt."

Baby perks up at Juno's praise shoulders slightly relaxing

"But autumns right. E rank races are good ways to stack easy money AND get you more comfortable behind a wheel"

Juno taps the hood of her Silvia.

"Speed don't mean shit if you don't know where you're going."

The girls nod in silent agreement

"Cool? Good. Now let's finish fixing my baby so we can whoop Reap's ass." Juno laughs turning to pick up the grubby red toolbox

—————

Thursday June 24th 2016 11:56 pm Velocity Motors

Tools gleamed beneath the blue fluorescent lights lining the garage wall. The concrete floor was clean enough to reflect the underglow of the cars parked inside.

Yoongi sat at his craft table surrounded by engine blueprints, Jungkook's GT-R owner manual opened beside a notebook filled with measurements and handwritten calculations. He erased another line before sketching it again.

The garage door rattled open.

"Yo scar you in here?" He hears being shouted followed by the sound of feet shuffling

"No"

"Well" Jungkook come up beside him before leaning on the table "looks different to me"

Yoongi sighs before looking up to see jungkook and Taehyung crowd around his work table

"What do you want reap? I'm working"

"I can see that" jungkook grumbles looking over Yoongis shoulder while spinning his car keys around his finger

"We came to see if you needed us to do anything, slicks on the phone with Marco right now to get the entry word."

Yoongi pushed him away and reached blindly to his left. Taehyung placed the eraser he'd been searching for directly into his hand.

Across the garage, Hoseok slid out from underneath his Supra on a creeper, grease streaked across one forearm."Heard we racing' halo tomorrow" Taehyung rolls his eyes leaning across the table "I hate racing their asses"

"Man quit faking I know you wanna to see ciphers fine ass" jungkook laughs now tossing his keys in the air

"And?" Taehyung shrugs reaching for a fiber towel

"They all fine doesn't stop them from being annoying" he walks towards Hoseok Supra

"last time I beat babys' crying ass and I swear them bitches tried jumping me in the parking lot"

Hoseok points a ratchet at him "Aye watch out with that bitch word"

"and baby ain't a crybaby, you know how new racers be" he finishes shrugging

"New racers what?" Namjoon asks walking in from the office entryway looking down at his phone

he's soon followed by a smiling jimin walking with a slight skip in his step

"Nothing." Yoongi waves him off

"What you smiling for?" He questions jimin with a raise of his brow

Jimin points to himself "I just got off the phone with Marco"

"Got the entry word for tomorrow night. and I'm told it's a seventeen K kinda race night" he smirks dragging out the last part of his sentence

The boys pause what they're doing to look up at him

"Only seventeen?" Namjoon frowns looking up from his screen

Jimin smile drops

"Marco doesn't lower prize pools for no reason"

"True" yoongi nods

Namjoon leans on the table looking over at Jimin

"Either turn outs weak or somebody big pulled"

Jungkook opens his mouth before Jimin cuts him off with a hand to his chest

"Mmcht, I kinda guessed that BUT!" Jimin Claps

" That ain't the focus, if somebody did pull out last minute that means it's still four racers tomorrow. WE just going to vibe check, win a few races, and dip"

Yoongi scoffs leaning back in his chair "you say that every car link and somehow we always end up in some bullshit"

"But Joons right, three grand don't just disappear if somebody big did pull that's 3k we're missing out on, I don't know about yall but a extra 3k never hurt my pockets"

"Shid who you telling! I need some new mods on the whip" Jungkook agrees sliding into the stool next to yoongi

"Bruh your mods be free the fuck are you talking about?" Jimin quips at jungkook

"And? Scar may do the mods but the materials he use ain't cheap"

"I already ordered the metallic wrap but now that I think about it I'm about to start charging yall for em'." Yoongi speaks

"Yea yea yea whatever look im tryna make sure we go and have a good time tomorrow is that to much to ask?" Jimin points out

Hoseok and Taehyung look at each other before bursting into laughter hitting each other in the process

"No YOU tryna go trick on brenleys mean ass" Taehyung jokes leaning onto Hoseok

"And then come home and whine about how she curves your ass again, better leave that girl alone before she slash your tires again" Hoseok finishes leaning back on the stool

"... no for real fool gon end with a fatass knot on his head next time" Jungkook chuckles

"Man whatever"Jimin flips them off

"LOOK we going tomorrow strictly for racing! Yall getting to comfortable sitting on the sidelines"Namjoon cuts in focusing the conversation back on topic

"The summer just started and I seen some XF007's that would look good as hell on my whip"

"We got Mr. Business over here n' shit" Taehyung rolls his eyes pushing off of Hoseok to walk towards his car

Yoongi chuckles under his breath re-sketching over the engine layout "when's the last time you hit something man? You be so stuck up when you ain't get nun it a min'."

"What? Man I get play! I'm just focused right now" Namjoon questions walking to sit on the leather couch along the wall

"On what? We ain't got shit to do new semester don't start for two months ain't nun to do but race and chase the whole summer" Jungkook points out

"Aye he got a point, I know I'm good I paid rent 4 months in advance due to that last race" jimin perks up while walking over to the vending machine in the corner

"Yea well some of us like to stack money instead of spending it" Namjoon huffs flipping through the magazine in his hand

"Says the fool with a 4,000 dollar chain on and just said something about some XF's" hoseok smirks while pointing and Namjoon

"...whatever"

"Man I hate this damn thing" jimin grumbles hitting the vending machine "...mothafucka took my last quarters"

"Bruh you got the key just open it and grabs the drink instead of being stupid" jungkook rolls his eyes at Jimin

"Now that yall got ya lil jokes out can we get back on track" Namjoon quips harshly

Hoseok clears his throat "so uh... who's racing tomorrow?"

"I am" Jungkook says now on his phone with out looking up

"No, ya not I am" Namjoon shoots

Yoongi and jimin share a glance

Jungkook looks up "and why the fuck not?!"

"Because I said so, but if you must know it's supposed to be some new cats on the scene tomorrow and I'm trying to make sure we win"

"Sooo you saying I don't win races" Jungkook questions with a quirk of his brow now offended

"I ain't say that" Namjoon replies

"Yea but you implied it"

"No. I didn't "

"Then what's the problem?" Jungkook huffs vexed at what Namjoon was getting at

"You race whoever's in front of you."

"I race everybody."

Taehyung sighs now polishing the hood of Hoseoks car

"Here they go again with this shit" jimin groans finally grabbing his chips out the machine

"Don't put words in my fucking mouth reap, I'm just saying everytime we race halo you be to focused on beating them to pay attention to other drivers" Namjoon curses

"I'm trying to see what crew made somebody nervous enough to pull out of a race last minute"

"That ain't got shit to do with me honestly but we'll see...".Jungkook adds before storming off

"Pops need to talk to his hard headed ass... he so damn stubborn" Hoseok quips sliding back under his car ————— Friday June 25th 2016 12:30AM Underground west district

Burnt rubber clung to the humid night air. Bass from three different stereos bled together until every parking row had its own soundtrack. Neon underglow rippled across puddles left over from yesterday's rain while vendors shouted over revving engines, selling burgers, tacos, and Styrofoam cups full of Hennessy.

This is where car people came to enjoy themselves some more so than others...

"runway! My favorite twin Carter" jimin smirks strolling through the crowd of people over to brenleys parked pink RX-7 leaving yoongi to stand by their cars awkwardly sipping the ciroc of from his cup scrolling through his phone

Brenley currently reapplying a new fresh layers of lipgloss let's out an exasperated groan the moment she recognized the consistently annoying voice that likes to terrorize her almost every Friday night

Closing her eyes she recline in her seat mentally preparing herself for whatever little game he was about to spit

Jimin finally comes to a stop at her door leaning down against the driver's window, peeking inside."when are you gonna let me trick on you mama"

"As soon as you put 6 bands in my hand slick" brenley replies staring down trying to look uninterested while holding out her fresh black acrylic manicured nails

"Shid say less baby" he laughs using his left hand to reach into his back pocket while caressing hers

"Slick get the fuck away from my car before I hit you with it" she says snatching her hand away

"Aw you ain't gotta be mean mama don't treat daddy like that" he pouts counting through the stack he pulled out

Yoongi watched the interaction from where he leaned against his car, shaking his head at Jimin's persistence.

"She ain't neva gon say yes man let it go" he shouts

"Man shut up I don't ask for a yes I asked for a opportunity" jimin rolls his eyes at yoongi

"Same thing" yoongi and brenley say in unison causing jimin to huff now focusing his full attention on brenley

Brenley scoffs reaching for her phone to text the group chat SOS "slick get the fuck on somewhere you do this every weekend, you don't get tired of me telling you no?"

"NOPE! Wanna know why?" He asks

"Nah not really"

"It's ok I know you do I know you gon give in eventually but that's for another time.... here" he says handing her the money

She takes it counting through the bills "2k? What's this for?"

"To make sure you show up looking pretty for me everytime" he laughs walking backwards

"You 4k short! TRICK!" She shouts from her window causing a few heads to turn in their direction

"It's ok I'm only a trick for you baby!" He laughs turning around to catch up with yoongi

"Still ain't get no date!" She throws a final insult happily adding the money into her purse excited to tell her friends about the extra cash she came up on later

Across the lot, Namjoon and Jungkook sat in their respective cars, parked side by side but saying nothing. The tension between them had Blackline on edge, especially after Jungkook's outburst and Namjoon's nonstop muttering about ignorant childish drivers.

Namjoon's thoughts had been running in circles since they arrived. Somewhere in the crowd was the crew that made another team pull out of a seventeen-thousand dollar race. Out of the corner of his eye, Jungkook kept fiddling with his lip ring.

Namjoon knew he should be the one racing tonight. He'd see things Jungkook wouldn't. That didn't stop him from worrying about his younger brother anyway.

Namjoon rolled down his window, ready to say something, but stopped at the sight of a golden sun belly ring and colorful waist beads wrapped around sunkissed dark brown skin.

Juno leaned down until her face came into view.

"Yo" Juno leans down to Joons eye level

"Well hello riot to what do I owe the pleasure" he smirks

"Can I hop in... we need to talk" she asks folding her arms in place

"Yea sure doors unlocked" he nods to the passenger door

Juno walks across the front of his car finally allowing him the chance to look at Jungkook who's already staring at him with a questionable raised bro as if to say "really?"

Joon shrugs turning his head in Juno's direction as she gets in

He rolls his window up "what's up Juno?" Question her

Juno watches as people walk around joking and laughing at nonsense around them

"There's a new crew racing tonight" she finally answers

"I know..." Namjoon nods his head slowly confused at where she's going with this

"Ci got a name" she sighs

"Who?" Namjoon sits up slightly at the new information

"Some crew from L.A. Crew leader Calls himself Fabio."

Namjoon frowns "Fabio?"

"That's what Ci said."

"Never heard of em"

"Neither had ci... until she started digging"

Namjoon stares at her before chuckling "And? That ain't enough to make you walk over here."

"Namjoon you didn't let me finish"

"A few... a few of their races ended up with a few bodies" she finishes

The laughter outside suddenly sounded farther away. A Camaro revved somewhere across the lot. Neither of them looked.

Namjoon rested both hands on the steering wheel.

"So? You know as well as I do this shit's dangerous. What makes them any different?"

"People wasn't dying 'cause they missed turns. They were fucking with other crews' cars."

Namjoon sighed leaning his head against his head rest looking at jungkooks now empty spot

"I knew there was a reason I ain't let his ass race tonight" he mumbles

"What? Reaps not racing" Juno questions

He wasn't supposed to be. Now that I know about this shit, I damn sure ain't letting him."

"...Namjoon did you look at Marcos pool?" Juno whispers

"Nah I already put money up for my crew, why?"

Juno pulls out her phone to view the group text that was sent out to show Namjoon

"Because jungkooks name is on the board"

Namjoon was already out of the driver's seat before Juno finished lowering her phone. His eyes swept across rows of cars.

Vendors, Crowds, Burnouts, until they landed on Hoseok standing beside a food truck with a tray of nachos.

Juno shoves open the passenger door rushing after him