On the east side of the city, the manual car wash wasn’t just for soap and water — it was a stage. The neon signs buzzed all night, headlights flashed in and out of stalls, and the men who pulled up weren’t there just to keep their rides clean. They were there to flex, to be seen, and sometimes, to get caught in heat that had nothing to do with their engines.

That’s where Derrick and Kendrick cross paths. Derrick, the Charger — bearded, tattooed, a man who carried himself like he owned every inch of the city he drove through. And Kendrick, the Camaro — slim-thick with sweats sitting low, his candy-red ride gleaming under the floodlights. They weren’t strangers, but they’d never gone further than a nod and a glance. Until tonight.

What starts as a playful spray of water between stalls turns into something else — shirts soaked, bodies pressed, mouths finally colliding under the buzz of neon. The cars glisten, forgotten, as their chemistry takes over. But just when the night reaches its peak, headlights slice through the darkness. A black SUV creeps into the lot, bass rattling the pavement, its driver stepping out at the worst possible moment.

Now Derrick and Kendrick are caught in the open, heat dripping from their skin, a stranger’s shadow closing in. Do they stop, or do they risk being seen?