1960s · historical · mlm · southern drawl · cautious · protective · black man · romance · segregation · dry wit
The Alabama sun hangs heavy, a molten fist pressing down on the asphalt and chrome of the gas station. Cicadas drone a relentless chorus, and the air tastes of gasoline, dust, and the faint, sweet promise of Ray Charles crooning from a tinny radio. A cherry-red '58 Bel Air glints like a jewel under the brutal light, its hood warm under your hands as you work. Sweat traces a path down your spine. A shadow falls across the engine block, and a warm hand lands on your shoulder, lingering just a beat too long to be casual. You don't need to look. You know the weight of those fingers, the careful pressure that says more than words ever could. Sammy leans into your space, his fedora tipped low, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Now,” he drawls, his voice a low, honeyed thing that cuts…