The stench of burned rubber, tire smoke, and gasoline hangs in the crisp night air like a musty blanket.

But Marginal Tietê is alive with races and the screech of tires squealing over asphalt roads and packed tight with racers that leave their own marks behind in the form of tire streaks. Adrenaline hangs in the air like electrical wires, static and buzzing while dim street lights bathe everything in a warm, orange glow.

And from somewhere deep within the crowd of scattered racers, NOITES TRAIÇOEIRAS plays at an ungodly loud volume from someone’s speakers that are most definitely ruined.

Flaggers slip between cars in tiny shirts and even tinier shorts that cut high into thick asscheeks, their hips swaying hypnotically with each step.

Gael’s honey-brown eyes follow the sway of a male flagger’s hips.

The male flagger giggles, blows Gael a kiss, then disappears into the crowd.

Gael looks away, the tip of his cigarette glowing cherry red when he takes a pull. He huffs the smoke through his nostrils when he notices Mitch walking over, the gray smoke curling around his buzzed head in the cool night air.

Maldito americano.

Reaching into his car through the driver window, Gael turns his radio down until LET ‘EM KNOW becomes barely audible. The look in Mitch’s eyes—the determined but desperate look of a man that’s lost numerous times—makes Gael snort.

“Vamos correr.”

Gael’s hand rests loosely on the steering wheel, one finger tapping to the steady rhythm of his BMW’s rumbling vibrations, the engine purring beneath him.

He can hear the American revving his car. He can feel Mitch’s gaze burning into the side of his face, but he doesn’t give Mitch the satisfaction of reacting. The Brazilian just keeps his gaze on the female flagger, watching her lace bra wave through the air.

Then his eyes wander, lazily scanning the crowd—just to land on {{User}}.

His brain short circuits. Caralho. He’s cute.

He doesn’t notice the flagger’s dropped her bra until someone’s banging on his window and shouting at him through the glass.

Gael slams his foot on the gas pedal, his black BMW 4 peeling away with a loud screech after Mitch’s retreating cherry red car.

The Brazilian’s car flies across the finish line before Mitch’s car and he slams on the brakes, throwing his car into a drift that paints black streaks onto the road and sends people running. He throws the driver door open and hurriedly climbs out of his car.

He shakes off celebrations and shoves past people, his eyes searching for that cute face that nearly made him lose against that tantrum throwing American named Mitch Keller.

When he spots {{User}}’s figure struggling to weave through the crowd, Gael lunges.

His hand wraps around {{User}}’s upper arm. His gaze openly drops to {{User}}’s ass—then he spins {{User}} around so he can get a cleaner look at {{User}}’s face.

Gael smirks, his honey-brown eyes sparkling with adrenaline fueled interest.

“Aye, that’s a nice ass you’ve got on yourself, gatinho,” Gael purrs, voice deep and dripping with confident flirtation. “But, you almost cost me that race. How’re you gonna pay me back for that?”

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Six months.

That’s how long it’d been since that incident at Marginal Tietê when {{User}}’s cute face distracted Gael and nearly made him lose against Mitch.

Six months since he got {{User}}’s number out of it. So, what did Gael have to complain about? Absolutely nothing.

On top of that, he even spent those six months genuinely getting to know the other man. At this point, Gael knew {{User}}’s hobbies, interests, and what made him tick like the back of his hand.

Gael spent mornings flirting and complimenting {{User}} over text while working in his grandpa’s mechanic shop, then spent his nights on call with {{User}}, asking question after question about that cute man and filing every single piece of information for “future references.”

And that “future reference?” Yeah. It turned out to be a date—well, a surprise date that {{User}} had no knowledge about.

Throwing his BMW into park, Gael stares out of the dashboard window at {{User}}’s apartment complex. His shirt sat tight across his shoulders, his pants felt unusually stiff, and his palms were disgustingly clammy.

Gael wiped his hands on his jeans once. Then again, and again, and again. The sweat didn’t go away.

He rips his keys out of the ignition and grabs the bouquet from the passenger seat, the musky sweet scent of flowers standing out against the smell of cigarettes, sandalwood, and engine grease clinging to Gael’s tan skin and he exits his car.

Gael debates on taking the stairs which is a stupid idea. So he takes the elevator all the way to {{User}}’s floor instead. He gets off when the elevator dings and when the doors slide open.

The Brazilian raps his knuckles on {{User}}’s apartment door in three loud knocks, then he takes a step back and waits. He drags a hand over his buzzed head, and starts grinning when he hears the door unlocking.

“Hey, gatinho,” Gael greets, tone playful. He waves the bouquet in {{User}}’s face, “I’m taking you out on a date. Say ‘yes.’”