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The House on South Sixth Street | Friday Night, 11:04 PM

The floorboards creak when you shift your weight. Everything smells like warm beer with a dampness to it, like someone tried to mop once and gave up. Somewhere, probably near the back of the house, there’s a leak that never got fixed. You can hear it. Drip, drip, drip.

You don’t know whose house this is. No one ever really does. It’s just the house on South Sixth, the one with the taped up mailbox and the basement that’s been hosting questionable music since freshman year. The walls are sweating. There’s condensation on the windows and someone wedged a box fan into the front window like it’ll do anything. It won’t. It just whines.

You’re standing near the kitchen and the basement stairs, letting the noise wash over you. Your drink is warm. Your lipstick is long gone. You’re wearing your ex’s old button down because it was the first thing you grabbed. It hangs loose over your tank top, sleeves rolled. One of the buttons is missing, not that you really care. Your jeans are ripped at the knee from when you dropped a soldering iron two weeks ago in lab. The burn scar’s still fresh.

There’s glitter on your cheekbone and a faint smudge of machine oil under your nail from fixing the busted chain on your bike earlier. The damn thing jammed on your way back from class, and you ended up fixing it behind the engineering building. You didn’t really mean to come out tonight, but your room was starting to feel too quiet—too full of problem sets, stripped wires, and the low buzz of your landline. You needed noise that wasn’t your own. And anyway, the assignment’s not due ‘til Monday. You’ll get it done. You always do.

Some Bucknell band is playing downstairs. You’ve seen them before. Finance majors with trust funds, the kind of guys who wear chipped nail polish for the aesthetic and call it 'subversive'. The lead singer spent one semester in Berlin and came back talking about Radiohead like it was a spiritual awakening... like OK Computer unlocked something in him. Now he’s snarling into a duct-taped mic about alienation and sex like he invented both. The guitars are too clean, like they’re afraid of sounding wrong, but trying not to be. The bassist’s barely in it. And the drummer, Jesus. He’s offbeat. Like he learned percussion from watching someone describe it. It’s almost impressive how consistently he misses the downbeat.

They’re trying to sell this whole tortured artist, “we’re raw and real” persona, but you can still hear the lacrosse practice in their vowels. They're cosplaying. Polished boys trying to pass for wreckage.

You’ve been here ten minutes and already hate most of the people in the room. Everyone’s either doing a bit or desperately trying not to look like they’re doing a bit. There’s a guy on the couch trying to read Infinite Jest. Another one in the kitchen explaining Joy Division like it’s a personality.

You’re about to leave when you see him.

Standing near the top of the basement stairs. Not leaning. Not drinking. Just standing. He’s tall, broad shouldered, with that stiff, pressed look that screams ROTC. Hair short, posture like a ruler. His shirt’s tucked in. Tucked. In. To jeans. At a house party. You can’t even see sweat on him, and this place feels like a sauna made of armpits and cheap vodka.

He doesn’t fit. Not at all.

And the best part? He’s not even trying to.

You watch him scan the room like he’s memorizing faces or exits or maybe counting how many people are about to fall down the stairs. He looks like someone who was dragged here by a roommate and is deeply regretting every second of it.

He doesn’t look at you.

And that pisses you off more than it should.

Because most guys here? They stare. At your tattoos, at your mouth, at the way your shirt slips off your shoulder. They look at you like you’re something they get to have. Not this one. This one doesn’t even flinch.

You take another sip. Feel the burn of shitty vodka hit the back of your throat. Smirk into the plastic rim of your cup. If he’s going to pretend not to see you, you’ll make sure he does.

You push off the wall, boots heavy on the floor, and start walking toward him. You spot the tension in his stance before you’re close enough to hear him breathe. He’s standing too straight. Chin level, hands jammed into the back pockets of his jeans like he’s trying not to reach for something. Probably used to giving orders, or taking them without flinching. Not drunk. Not even tipsy. He’s dry in a room soaked in sweat and cheap vodka.

You cut across the hallway, past a couple making out against the fridge, and plant yourself in front of him. Close enough that he has to look at you, really look at you.

He does.

For a second, he just stares. You’ve been looked at before: hungry, bored, possessive, curious. This isn’t that. He looks at you like you’re a question he didn’t plan on answering.

“Let me guess,” you say, nodding at his whole pressed, upright existence. “Military haircut, boots shined to hell, standing like you’ve got a stick up your spine. You get lost on the way to a Young Republicans meeting, or is this your version of fieldwork... studying how the rest of us fall apart?”

His eyes narrow immediately. His jaw locks.

“I’m not a Republican,” he snaps. Sharp. Precise. 

You blink, mock offended. “Wow, okay. That’s the part you object to?”

His mouth twitches. Just once. “The rest wasn’t worth correcting.”

You laugh, sudden and real. “Jesus. What are you, like… military prep school, tax break trust fund, and a ten year plan laminated in your sock drawer?”

He bristles, and that’s when you know you’ve got him.

“No,” he says. Firm. “I’m on scholarship. ROTC. Biochem.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Damn. You’re serious."

“I have to be.”

That gives you pause. It’s not a defense. Just a fact. Matter of fact, like the way he breathes. You take a slow sip, tilting your head to examine him under the dim light. Even now, even cornered by a glitter smudged stranger, he’s standing like someone might be grading his posture.

“You always this tightly wound,” you ask, “or am I just lucky?”

His lips press together. Irritation flares behind his eyes, but something else, too... attention. Curiosity. He could’ve walked away. Could still. But he hasn’t. You push further. That’s what you do.

“So what, you’re just standing here? Alone?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s weighing how much patience he has left. “My roommate’s the drummer.”

You raise your cup again. “Yikes.”

That almost gets him. A flicker of something behind his eyes. Not a smile, he’s holding onto that like a secret, but a crack in the armor. “What’s your excuse?” he asks.

“For what?”

“Being here.”

You lean against the wall beside him, letting your boot scuff the tile. “Needed noise,” you say. “And movement. My room felt like it was closing in. Figured I’d come get stared at and underestimated in person.”

He watches you like he’s trying to decode the sentence. “Stared at and underestimated,” he repeats.

You shrug. “Comes with the territory. People see the attitude, the ink, the boots. They assume I’m coasting.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t apologize. Just says, “Are you?”

You grin, slow. “Mechanical engineering. I reverse engineered the hydraulics on a busted car jack and turned it into a functioning record player. Passed fluid dynamics with a fever and a black eye. I don’t coast.”

His eyes flick down to your hand wrapped around the cup. The faint grease smear beneath your nail. The bandage around your middle finger. His gaze lingers, not in a way that feels possessive, but like he’s cataloging the facts. Building a profile.

“Jack,” he says finally. “Jack Abbot.”

You nod. “Knew you had a name like that.”

He studies you for another beat. “What’s that mean?”

“Just fits. Buttoned up. Clean cut. You probably write in all caps.”

“I do,” he says.

You snort. You give your name. No last name. Just enough to offer. He takes it in without comment, like he’s filing it away for later. Like your name means something, but he’s not going to say what.

“I didn’t want to come tonight,” he admits. “I had a lab write up due at midnight. Finished early. Got dragged out.”

You nod slowly. “So your version of blowing off steam is standing against a wall looking like you’re about to get deployed?”

That flicker again. Closer to a smile this time. Still restrained.

“You’re relentless,” he mutters.

You beam. “That’s the nicest thing someone has called me all week.”

He glances toward the basement, where the band is still thrashing their way through a chord progression they clearly didn’t rehearse. Then back at you. “I don’t usually stay long.”

You lean in, voice low and easy. “Good thing I don’t either.”

The silence between you tightens. Not awkward. Just full.

And still, he doesn’t walk away.

You don’t remember exactly when you ended up outside. One minute you were toe-to-toe with Jack; the next, you were shouldering past a guy in a jersey to get to the front door.

The porch groans under your boots as you step out. The air is still thick, but at least it moves. You run a hand through your hair. Your drink’s long gone. Your head’s starting to throb behind your left temple, pre-hangover setting in. There’s a lighter in your pocket and a crumpled pack of American Spirits someone left on the rail. You shake one loose, stick it between your lips, and spark it without hesitation.

The door creaks open behind you. 

Of course he follows.

He doesn’t say a word. Just steps outside and settles against the far porch post, arms crossed, eyes on nothing. Like he’s replaying the whole thing in his head.

You don’t look at him right away. You take a drag, exhale toward the dark yard, and say, “You always let girls rip you to shreds, or am I just special?”

“I don’t think you need me to answer that,” he says, voice even. Not defensive. Just him.

You glance at him. “Fair.”

The cicadas buzz. Music leaks through the cracked window behind you. Someone’s screaming lyrics no one knows. Jack shifts slightly. 

You sigh.

“I don’t do well in places like that,” you admit, motioning toward the house. “Too many people performing apathy. Makes my skin itch.”

“You didn’t seem apathetic,” he says.

You flick ash from the end of your cigarette. “Yeah, well. I don’t perform.”

That gets a pause. He studies you again. You let him. It’s rare, being looked at like a puzzle instead of a prize.

“You said you’re in ROTC,” you say. “What’s that like?”

“Structured,” he says. “Long.”

You smirk. “Sounds like a prison sentence.”

“Some days,” he allows.

You shift, leaning your shoulder into the porch post now, mirroring his angle. You don’t mean to. It just happens.

“So why do it?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away. You don’t rush him.

“Because I said I would,” he says finally.

You blink. “That’s it?”

He nods.

That’s not something you hear a lot. Especially around here, where most people pivot majors three times and still don’t know what they’re doing. “I meant what I said earlier,” you tell him. “I’m not coasting.”

He nods once. “I know.”

“I’m on a full ride,” you say, too quickly. “Work study in the machine shop. I had to rewire our dorm landline after my roommate’s bedazzled Conair blew the fuse for the third time. She’s a fashion major, leaves Teen Vogue tear-outs on my pillow for ‘aesthetic inspiration,’ and calls me her ‘feral little genius.’ I drink too much, put everything off ‘til the last possible minute, and still test out above kids who haven’t seen daylight in weeks. People think I’m gonna crash. I just don’t.”

You watch his face for the twitch, the shift, the subtle lean back that always comes after this part. The part where you stop being charming and start being real.

“And I’m telling you all this to scare you off,” you add, a little sharper now. “Because guys like you don’t actually want to know girls like me. You stick around for the novelty, for the mouth, maybe for the thrill of it. But not the reality. You hear ‘machine shop’ and ‘full ride’ and start thinking about your mommy’s dinner table. You see the grease under my nails and the half-finished soldering project on my desk and realize I’m not going to play girlfriend the way you’re used to. I pick a wrench over dinner. I say things I’m not supposed to say out loud. And I never, ever ask for help.”

You glance away. Breathe. There’s a long beat. You almost wish he’d scoff, roll his eyes, call you dramatic. That would make it easier. Instead—“You rewired your landline?”

You blink. “That’s what you’re taking from this?”

He shrugs one shoulder, unfazed. “It’s impressive. Especially for dorm wiring.”

You stare at him. “I like to fix things.”

“You say that like a compulsion.”

A pause. Then you say, more honest than you mean to be, “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

He tilts his head slightly. Something flickers across his face. Not irritation. Not amusement. Not even surprise. Recognition.

“My radiator’s leaking,” he says finally, voice quiet. Like it’s just a fact. Like you were always going to be the one he told.

You tilt your head. “Okay. And?”

“‘Ninety-three Cherokee,” he adds. “Heat gauge’s shot too. Took it to a shop last week. Charged me for the labor, didn’t touch the engine.”

His voice doesn’t change, but there’s something under it. Not frustration. Just that edge people like him carry when they don’t like asking for help.

You drop your cigarette, crush it with the ball of your boot. “You got a socket set?”

He nods once.

“Cool." you say, halfway down the porch steps already. Acting as if this whole conversation was just a smoke break detour.

There’s a pause behind you. A hesitation, not loud, but noticeable.

“Wait,” he says slowly, “was that you offering to fix my car?”

You keep walking. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your face. “No,” you say, voice dry, almost bored. “I’ll let you know if I feel like it, soldier boy.”

You know exactly what you’re doing. The name is a test. A tug on something. It lands. You hear it in the silence that follows. Something shifts in him. Not annoyance. It’s softer. Deeper. Like you reached past whatever version of him was standing guard and hit something he didn’t mean to show you.

He calls after you. Quiet, almost thoughtful. “You don’t even have a phone.”

You stop at the edge of the sidewalk, one boot heel hanging off the curb. Turn just enough to look over your shoulder. Your grin is slow, a little crooked. Like you know he’s still watching. Like you want him to.

“That’s what dorm landlines are for.”

And then you’re gone. You don’t wait for a reply. Don’t give him anything else. The night folds in around you as you head down the block, cigarette smoke still lingering. You don’t look back. Not once.

But you feel it. His eyes on you. The weight of it.

Jack stays where he is, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, thumb grazing the edge of his flip phone like instinct. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. There’s something about the way he’s staring down the street… like he’s memorizing the sound of your boots on pavement, like he knows he’s not supposed to want this and wants it anyway.

He’s not sure what just happened. He’s not even sure what to call it. But your voice is still echoing somewhere under his ribs. And for the first time in a long damn time, Jack Abbot feels like someone cracked open the casing and left the wiring exposed.

Whatever that was, whatever the hell you are—he’s not walking away from it.

South Campus — Third Floor, Room 318 | Thursday Night, 9:41 PM

Your room lives at a constant low hum. Fan in the window rattling. A desk lamp throws a cone of yellow over your mess, textbooks stacked like bricks (Statics, Thermo, a fluid mechanics binder), a cracked cassette deck flayed open on an old dish towel, screws grouped as if you’ll remember the pattern of importance tomorrow. The radio is tuned to 90.5 and doesn’t like it; Alice In Chains keeps dissolving into static and then back again like the station is nervous.

The landline rings.

Not delicate. A blunt, BRRRT.

You pick up.

“What.”

"Have you made up your mind yet?”

The voice is low and confident. You spin the coiled cord around your finger. “About?”

“My car,” he says. No intro. No 'hey, it’s Jack.' Like he knew you’d know. “The radiator.”

You ease back in your desk chair until it squeaks. “You calling my dorm landline for a status update? That’s so cute.”

A quiet exhale that isn’t quite a laugh. “It’s not drivable.”

“You said that like you wanted it to sound simple,” you say, because you can’t help yourself. “It didn’t.”

“It overheats inside two miles,” he replies, each syllable lined up like he measured it. “Coolant’s dropping fast. Upper hose is swelling. The gauge sits at cold until it doesn’t and then it jumps.”

“You check the thermostat?”

“Replaced it last semester.”

There’s something under the flatness in the sentence. Annoyance mixed with the quieter, uglier thread men like him don’t show unless they’re forced to. You look at your screw groupings. Shift one with the tip of a fingernail.

“Year,” you say.

“Ninety-three.”

“Inline six?”

“Yes.”

“Mileage.”

“Two hundred and twenty eight.”

“Color.”

He hesitates, and you grin because you know he knows the question isn’t relevant at all. “Red,” he says anyway. “Mostly.”

You let the room breathe for a second. Pearl Jam has now transitioned onto the radio station. Someone barrels down the hallway, laughing the way people laugh when they think anyone who isn’t them is asleep. Down the line, you hear him adjust the phone in his hand; you imagine the way he’s doing it.

“Next Monday,” he says, not quite a question. “I have a very important round of drill.”

“Congratulations?” You wedge the receiver between your ear and your shoulder and pick up needle-nose pliers, because you refuse to be the sort of girl who stops moving when a boy talks.

“I need a ride to 0600 training,” he clarifies. “I won’t get one.”

“You could take the bus,” you say, even though you know exactly what the 5:30 bus looks like and why he won’t. “Or run. You people like that.”

“Not in boots,”

You lean forward until your ribs meet the desk. “Tell me again why I should care.”

“Because you said you’d think about it,” he answers, and the words are simple. No bargaining. No flattery. Just the evidence.

A smile crawls up your face. You rest the pliers on the towel. “Maybe I did.”

He doesn’t fill the quiet. Boys like him usually stuff silence like a gift bag; jokes, smoke, hands. Jack leaves it alone, lets it stand between you like something you might both want.

“What do you actually want, Jack Abbot,” you ask finally, aiming his name at him to see how he reacts.

A soft click as he shifts. “I want my Cherokee to make it to drill and back without boiling over,” he says. “And I want you to decide.”

“That’s two things,” you say.

“I can count.”

You swivel the chair to face the window. The fan breathes stale heat across your shins. In the glass you catch the blurred reflection of the Tupperware of resistors labeled in your roommate’s bubbly handwriting because she thinks 'a system' will civilize you.

You light a cigarette with the same Bic you use to heat-shrink tubing. First drag tastes like last week’s promise. “What’s in it for me,” you ask, and you ask it in the tone that makes boys defensive.

“I can pay you,” he says, as if any other answer doesn’t exist. “Cash.”

Your laugh is an exhale into the receiver. “You can’t afford me.”

He doesn’t take the bait. “Try me.”

You flick ash into the empty coffee mug that used to say WORLD’S OKAYEST STUDENT before it peeled. You could say yes now, but where’s the fun in that. “I’ll think about it,” you tell him, repeating yourself.

“You said that already.”

“And I meant it already.”

A pause. You can feel him memorizing the shape of your hesitation the way he memorized exit routes in that house. “How long does thinking take.”

“Depends who’s doing it.”

You can hear someone knocking on the wrong door and then giggle like that was the point. Your roommate, Kelly, won’t be back until she’s exhausted of sorority business.

“Bring a new hose,” you say finally, so quickly it could be a mistake. “Upper. Two clamps. And real coolant, not the cheap shit. If you’re smart, you’ll have a funnel and a pan that isn’t your mom’s lasagna dish. Don’t start it ’til I get there.”

“What time.”

“Not on your clock, Abbot. You can sync your watch to ‘Saturday’ and pray. The rest happens when I feel like it.”

“Saturday,” he repeats, stubbornly neutral. “Where?”

“You’ll figure it out,” you say, because you want him to have to. “You found my landline, soldier boy.”

The silence shifts. There it is again, that small drop in him when you tug the string. You like it. You let a beat hang for the pleasure of it. “I’m hanging up now.”

“I know.”

You don’t, not yet. You listen to the line like it might confess something. You picture him with the phone to his ear, back pressed to a blank cinderblock wall, jaw set, eyes on nothing. Exactly as you left him on that porch.

“Think fast,” you say, and drop the receiver into its cradle before he can.

You take a final drag and balance the cigarette on the rim of the mug. On the corner of your legal pad, you write a list you immediately cross out like you’re hating yourself for being soft: HOSE / CLAMPS / FUNNEL / PAN / OTHER SHIT I'LL THINK OF LATER.

You realize your heart’s doing a weird thing in your chest, like it heard his voice and decided to be on time. You shake it off. You’re not the type to get domesticated by a voice on a wire.

You change the radio station and skip past three clean stations before you catch a dirty one and leave it there on purpose.

Parking Lot Near Jack's Place | Saturday, 12:22 PM

September heat sits on the asphalt like a sleeping dog you don’t want to step over. Your head is one long pulse behind the left eye, each throbbing beat a reminder that two dollar pitchers are not your friend and neither is daylight.

You coast in on your bike anyway, the back brake squealing. White ribbed tank already damp between your shoulder blades. Tattoos bright and loud. The tank’s thin, and the steel through your nipples flashes when the sun nails you straight on; you don’t hide it. You don’t hide anything. You kick the stand with your heel and let the bike sulk by the curb.

The Cherokee’s easy to spot. Jack’s leaned on the quarter panel, ROTC gray shirt, clean jeans. On the ground there is a new upper hose coiled, two worm clamps, a funnel, a five-quart of 50/50, shallow aluminum pan, folded shop rags. Next to it, a four-pack of blue Gatorade sweating hard. You wonder if he knew you'd be hungover.

“Thought drill ate your morning,” you say.

“Ended at eleven.” He doesn’t add anything extra.

“Congratulations on surviving patriotism.”

He bends, picks a bottle, cracks the cap, and hands it over. You take it and drink too fast. “You’d think a future Army medic would know essential shit,” you mutter, wiping your mouth with the back of your wrist.

“I’m training to save lives. Not radiators.”

“Same family.” You tap the hood. “Pressure. Fluids. People forget machines are animals if you listen right.”

He doesn’t say you’re being dramatic. He just nods toward the latch like he’s already filed your sentence under 'somewhat useful.'

“Pop it,” you say.

He does. The hood lifts. Heat breathes out, sweet and chemical, that gummy antifreeze smell that lives in every decent garage. You shove your sunglasses up into your hair, tie it back with the elastic on your wrist, and lean in. The upper hose is swollen, clamp rusted to a color that used to be silver.

“Mulberry shop?” you ask.

His mouth tics once. “Yeah.”

“You paid for a fix and got a leak on a timer.” Case clicks open. “Whoever set that clamp like that needs new fingers... or a new paint job on their door.”

He stands where he won’t cast a shadow across your hands, but close enough that if you reached back you’d touch him. Most guys hover like gnats and call it help. Jack is… still. Present without being in the way. It makes your hangover more bearable, and you resent him a little for the relief.

You brace the flathead on the worm screw and test the cap with your other hand. “If you splash coolant on this lot, I’m telling everyone you cried.”

“Duly noted.” You hear the laugh he refuses to let out.

Your stomach rolls once. You breathe through it. You drop to a knee, shoulder to bumper. He crouches too, parallel, not mirroring, just two separate systems in the same space. He slides the pan under without you asking. You feel watched but not consumed.

“You hungover?” he asks, like it was inevitable.

“Say anything about it and I’ll put you on your own.”

“Copy.”

“Good boy.”

The cap you've been playing with comes free. The smell sharpens. He folds a rag into a neat rectangle and passes it into your hand. You slide your palm along the hose. Soft spot. Rot tucked under the clamp like it was hiding. “Heard your feelings were hurt on the phone when I wouldn’t give you a time.”

“They weren’t. It was… new.”

“What, a girl not slotting herself on your watch?” You angle the screwdriver, put weight into it.

“Someone saying ‘Saturday’ and trusting me to make the rest work. I’m used to knowing windows.”

“You’ll learn.” You glance up at him, and his eyes stay on yours. Not on the steel through your tank where the sun’s hitting, not on the ink running over your shoulder and down; he makes himself not look and you see the making. It amuses you. You reward and punish him for it all at once. “Relax, soldier. It’s jewelry.”

“I’m aware.”

You pop the clamp loose. It bites your knuckle; you hiss, stick the finger in your mouth, taste metal and sugar. He moves in the space you leave, steadying the hose so you can pry it without tearing it. You don’t thank him. He doesn’t need it.

“Tell me something useful,” you say, because noise steadies your stomach when the world’s too bright. “Field case, bleeder with a chest wound.”

“Occlusive,” he answers immediately. “Monitor oxygen, decompress if it worsens.”

“Good,” you say. “Radiators are the same. Pressure has to escape somewhere. When it escapes wrong, things die.”

“That part I understand.”

The hose lets go with a wet gasp. You angle it to drain. He doesn't flinch. A breeze lifts just enough to move the hair at your temple. You pretend it helps.

“Hand,” you say, and he’s already there with the new hose, the clamp slid on the right way, screw ready where a human hand can reach it next time. Of course he prepped it. Of course he looked at how you hate other people’s laziness and decided not to be Other People.

You can feel him watching the angle of your wrist like he’s learning your torque by eye. “You’re not going to ask me to teach you,” you say. Not a question.

“I am already watching.”

“That’s not learning,” you say, just to push him. “That’s church.”

He thinks about it. “Then I’m doing both.”

You smirk despite the throb in your skull. “Careful. You’re almost charming.”

“By accident,” he says, which is the single most Jack thing he could’ve said.

You switch to the other clamp, flip it, snug it. He cracks another Gatorade and sets it in your reach without interrupting. You drink with one greasy hand, the other still braced. The sugar keeps your stomach from betraying you.

“You’re really not going to ask me again what I want for this?” you say, wiping your mouth.

“I was going to after we burp the system.”

“Look at you postponing gratification.” You haul yourself up, legs complaining, and reach for the coolant. He takes the jug, holds the funnel, doesn’t drip. “Heater on full when we run it. You’ll smell like wet socks for an hour.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” you mimic, soft and mocking. “You’re very agreeable.”

He smiles. “I pick my battles.”

“And you picked me.” You lean an elbow on the radiator support, lazy, letting the tank cling to you, letting him decide what to do with the view. He chooses stillness. His ears go a little pink. You have to bite your tongue not to reward him with a real grin.

“Ready,” he says.

“Do not flood it.” You cap the radiator, leave the overflow halfway, and nod at the driver’s door. “Ignition.”

He gets in, movements exact without being fussy. Keys, choke, turn. You hear a sound you’ve loved since you were twelve and learned that things bigger than you could choose to behave. You watch the hose, the clamp, your ear tuned to the idle, that rough clean purr that says today you win.

“Temp gauge?” you call.

“Climbing.”

“Good. Let it.”

You keep your palm near the hose. He cracks the window. The smell of old dust blows out of the vents.

“Half,” he says, eyes on the needle.

“Give me the numbers,” you say, because you like to hear him do it.

“One-seventy. One-eighty. Stabilizing at one-ninety.”

“Good boy,” you say again, and this time you don’t pretend it slipped. You knock the fan shroud with your knuckles like you’re telling the Jeep you see it. “Kill it.”

He does.

He gets out and shuts the door with the kind of care that says he’s never slammed anything in his life. “How much do I owe you?”

You close the hood with both hands and the weight thunks into place. You wipe your palms on the back pockets of your shorts and look at him. “Like I said, you can’t afford me.”

“Try me,”

“No,” you say, stepping in close enough that he can smell your sweat, last night and the cherry chapstick you stole from your roommate because you liked the color. “But you can accompany me to a party tonight.”

His brow shifts. “Payment is… going with you.”

You nod and hook a finger in the plastic ring of the last Gatorade. “South Sixth. Eleven. Don’t tuck your shirt in or I’ll send you home.”

“I don’t like those parties.”

“I don’t like radiators,” you say, “And yet.”

He thinks about it like it’s an order he can refuse or obey and live with himself either way. “Okay.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I’ll meet you at eleven.” He meets your eyes when he says it.

“Good.” You snap the socket case shut, swing the backpack over your shoulder. The world tilts, hangover reminding you that it's still there, and you let your knee brush the bumper until everything steadies itself.

He notices. Of course he fucking notices. “You should eat something.”

“You offering to cook?” You’re already walking the bike by the handlebars. “Scary. What do Army boys make. Powdered eggs?”

“I can make toast.”

“Save it for a day I like you.” You start to roll, then plant your foot to stop and look back at him because you feel like being kind and mean. “Nice work, by the way.”

“What?”

“You didn’t block my light. And you didn’t look unless I let you.” You tilt your chin, let the sun hit the jewelry through your shirt. “That’s good manners.”

He doesn’t blush this time. He nods like you handed him a ribbon he wasn’t trying to win. “I’ll see you at eleven.”

“Don’t be early,” you throw over your shoulder. “I hate eagerness.”

“I’ll be on time.”

“Gross,” you say, and push off.

Behind you, the Jeep ticks, proving to itself that it's useful when it’s not broken. You sip the last warm inch of blue and wince and drink it anyway. Your head still hurts, but it’s a different shape now.

You don’t look back. You don’t have to.

South Campus — Third Floor, Room 318 | Saturday, 10:52 PM

Down the hall, a stereo coughs up Third Eye Blind through a blown speaker. Fluorescents hum. Three knocks. Measured. You can tell they're Jack's.

You open the door. Jack stands clean in the threshold. He carries nothing but that quiet he wears that makes rooms line up without noticing.

“Hi,” he says.

“Untucked,” you note, stepping aside. “Look at you following orders.”

“Selective compliance,” he says.

Kelly’s door is open, her bed a riot of pink duvet and shiny magazines. She’s in a pink robe, hot rollers in her hair. Toenails halfway to champagne. When she spots him, she lights up.

“Oh my—hi,” she says, already halfway into the hall. “You’re Jack. Finally. A normal boy!” She tilts her head, thinking hard. “Not like the last one, thank God.”

You flick her forearm as you pass. A sharp little snap. “Boundaries.”

She rubs the spot, unfazed, then beams up at Jack, who has already stepped sideways to give her room. “I’m Kelly. Her roommate. I’ve heard… good things.” She winks at you.

“Kelly,” you say.

“Context,” Kelly says, easy. “Last guy: bass player, bad clothes, worse choices. She caught him behind the music building with a girl; he handed over a graph paper apology and tears. She didn’t yell... she took his bike apart and set the pieces by the door. Also, he was not handsome. You are. That’s already better.”

You flick her again. Less sting, more warning. “We’re not doing the museum tour of boyfriends.”

Jack’s mouth goes loose at the edges. The sound he makes is small and clean, the real laugh you knew he kept somewhere. It gets out before he catches it.

“Context received,” he says.

Kelly’s eyes get wide. “You laugh,” she says, delighted. Then, to him, abruptly frank: “Be good to her.”

“I plan to walk her back,” he says, as if it's something he planned out already.

You feel the floor shift under that sentence. You decide to ignore it. “I have to change,” you say, and you say it to him on purpose.

“Stay,” you tell Jack when he half turns toward the hall away from your bedroom. “You’re not made of glass.”

“I didn’t say I was,” he answers, ears already going pink.

You cross to the closet. Wire hangers, one black slip dress with a cut, the leather jacket you refuse to give up on. You hook the dress free, toss it onto the bed, and peel the white tank off your skin. Cotton skims, jewelry flashes; tattoos wake up under the lamp. You don’t apologize. The room keeps being the room.

Jack picks a point on your bookshelf and nails his gaze there. His hands go pocket deep like that’s safe.

“Points for manners,” Kelly says from her doorway, voice low, genuinely pleased.

“Working on it,” he says, dry.

You step into the slip. The dress turns your ink into something dangerous in a new way. You look up. He’s still staring at The Bell Jar like he’s genuinely interested, but his ears betray him again.

“Don’t pass out,” you say, amused.

“Not planning to,” he says, and you believe him because planning is what he's good at.

You sit on the bed, lace boots. The movements are quick and exact. You tilt to tuck a key into the boot shaft and the strap slides off your shoulder. You don’t fix it yet. You want to see if he can keep being the person he is.

He does. He shifts his eyes to the metal bookend shaped like a wrench and studies it like it might tell him something new about you.

You stand. Walk into his space until you can feel the temperature of him. Take his collar between two fingers and straighten the seam. He goes still. You let the strap fall the rest of the way, then move it back up.

Kelly has drifted back into the hallway, pretending to adjust a roller. Her eyes are soft. “You look like yourself,” she says, simple, proud.

“Lock the door,” you tell her. “Don’t go near my soldering iron. If security knocks, you’ve never met me.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” she says, then looks at Jack with that bright protective thing she does when she means it: “If she needs anything, she’ll ask. Don’t make her ask twice.”

“I won’t.”

You grab your jacket, reconsider, leave it. On your way out, you flick Kelly’s arm again, softer. She grabs your wrist, squeezes, lets go.

You take stairs because the elevator makes bad noises. Jack keeps your pace. Outside, the night is thick. Sprinklers thread the lawn. A girl in platforms laughs, ankle wobbly and unhurt. You cut across the quad. He asks nothing for a dozen yards. Then, because he’s him:

“Do you want me close in there,” he asks, “or outside your elbow.”

“Close enough,” you say. “Far enough I don’t feel managed.”

He nods. “If somebody puts hands where they shouldn’t—”

“I fix it first,” you say. “You enjoy the show.”

“I won’t,” he says, and you believe that too.

You bump his hand with yours by accident. He doesn’t take it but he leaves his hand there, a parallel line. The backs of your fingers keep knocking.

“Kelly gave her version of your ex,” he says finally. “What’s yours.”

You roll the thought around once. “He wanted a project. I’m not a project.” You drag a breath through your teeth. “I don’t break the way people find convenient. He cheated; I packed a crate; we were done.”

“Did it hurt,” he asks, voice even, not prying.

“Not the way you mean,” you say. “It felt like wasting time. I hate waste.”

He keeps note of that. You tilt your head. “You’re red again.”

“Ears?”

“Yeah,” you say, not unkind. “They’re honest.”

House on South Sixth is already sweating. You can feel the party under your feet before you hit the steps. At the bottom of the walk, you touch his chest with flat fingers.

“Ground rules,” you say. “You don’t introduce me like you found me. If I disappear, it’s on purpose. If I need you, you’ll know.”

“I’ll know,” he says, and you hate that the words land like relief.

You let your hand fall. The strap slides again. This time he reaches to set it back where it belongs with two fingers and then steps away.

“Ready,” you ask.

“Yes,” he says, and there’s that laugh again, softened into something you only hear if you’re standing where you are. “And for the record—”

“What.”

“You look like trouble,” he says. “I like trouble.”

You smile. “Keep up, then.”

The house exhales: beer, damp wood, something floral gone wrong. Bodies, noise, walls breathing in music. He follows you into it without touching your back. The smallness of that is not small. You feel it.

You told him not to hover. He doesn’t. And yet every time you lift your head, you can locate him in under a second. It’s too competent to be an accident.

You move like you were built for this. Two careful sips of a beer someone passes down the line, no third sip because that one always turns into a fourth. Someone you’ll never see again is telling someone else about their screenplay. You catch yourself looking for him. That pisses you off. That thrills you. You want him closer.

So you fix it.

Somebody says truth or dare like a joke and the joke congeals into a rule. You sit before the circle decides who sits. You hook two fingers at him without even looking. “Perimeter’s moving,” you say. “Keep up.”

He looks at you like he’s checking whether you actually mean come here or you mean watch me from there and think about it. Then he comes. Floor, not the couch. One knee up, forearm draped there. His shoulder settles near your knee because that’s where your leg lands. He does not lean in. He does not lean away. A careful animal in a not careful room.

The bottle spins on the rug. It squeaks over spilled beer and a burned patch you don’t want to ask about. A girl in butterfly clips dares a guy in a jersey to call his mother and declare his intention to join a cult; he tries, she doesn’t answer, he leaves a message that makes the circle shriek. Someone gets dared to play 'Where Is My Mind' on the guitar and misses most of the chords.

“Truth or dare?” Jersey points at you.

“Dare,” you say, because you’re not folding on a Saturday.

“Kiss the person you find most attractive,” he blurts before he can think up something worse. There’s a small cheer. Even the house seems to lean forward.

You let your body telegraph the answer everyone expects: shoulder angles toward Jack, weight shift, gaze sliding to him like you were always going to pick him. You feel him breathe and not move. Then, half beat before contact, you change course. Your hand finds the jaw of the guy to Jack’s right. You kiss him once: not soft, not long, just enough so that the room makes a noise. You keep your eyes open over Pretty Boy’s nose and hold Jack’s gaze the whole time.

Jack does nothing with his face. He doesn’t blink. He lets the muscle at his jaw remember that it exists and then quiets it. That’s all.

You pull away. The taste in your mouth is mint gum and trouble. “Satisfied?” you ask the circle.

“Ecstatic,” Jersey says, already half plotting how to dare you again.

Pretty Boy touches his lip like he’s checking if it happened.

“That wasn’t for you,” you say, and the smile you give him is sharp enough to leave a mark.

The bottle spins on. A girl you don’t know kisses the wall because she refuses to kiss anyone else. Someone dares someone to lick the kitchen floor; even drunk, the circle has standards.

They point the bottle at Jack because he sat, therefore consent. “Truth or dare, ROTC.”

“Truth,” he says.

“Boring,” Butterfly Clips says on reflex.

He doesn’t argue with that or change his mind. “Ask it anyway.”

Jersey thinks he’s clever: “What’s the worst thing you’ve done that you’re not sorry for.”

“Took a drunk’s keys,” he says. “He didn’t know I had them. I made sure he didn’t find them. Didn't know who the guy was.”

“You’re a thief.”

“I’m a brake,” Jack says.

The circle looks around. You let yourself like him for how clean that sentence lands and how little he seems to care about being liked for it.

The bottle deals you back to him. “Dare,” you say, ready for blood.

“Water,” he says, already holding out a cup. Not smirking. Not jokingly. Just the dare he wants you to take.

“Coward’s dare,” you tell him, but you drink it anyway.

The room lurches into the kind of late where rules loosen. Your bottle becomes a new bottle, then something harsher.. You lose Jack for four minutes and feel it like a missing ring. You find him again at your elbow, holding cold blue Gatorade. You don't question where he got it, just press the wet plastic to your lips, tip it, hand it back.

You go outside to breathe.

She’s at the top step.

The mistake your ex made. Of course she fucking is. She has the watchful patience of a person who came to be seen doing something and hasn’t decided what yet.

“You’re her.”

“Oh great,” you say.

“You took his bike apart,” she says, rehearsed.

“It needed to come apart,” you say, bored.

A muscle near her mouth tightens. “You think you’re some kind of legend.”

“I think I know what I’m good at,” you say, and you say it the quiet way: “No one fucks as well as I do.” It doesn’t need to be loud. It just needs to be true.

There’s a gasp from a stranger. Her eyes sharpen and takes one half step into your space like that counts as winning. “Prove it,” she says, cruel and unimaginative. Something old in you lights. The air changes temperature. Jack is at the porch rail without touching you, without touching her. He looks at the space between you like that’s the problem. “We’re done,” he says. Not loud. Not asking.

“I’m busy.”

“You’re done,” he repeats, and you turn because you want to see the shape of his face when he picks no for you.

It’s the shape of a decision. It isn’t angry. It isn’t worried. It’s the face you’ve seen when he stands at a door he’s going to go through whether or not it opens. “Walk,” he says.

You smile with your teeth because your blood is humming and you like trouble. “Giving commands now? I told you I'd let you know when you’re needed.”

He gives you half a second for grace and then takes the next second away. One hand finds your waist, fingers firm in the silk; the other hand brackets the back of your thigh. He lifts. The world flips. He shoulders you like you weigh what you weigh and he’s not guessing. It’s not a scene; it’s a decision executed. Your stomach drops and then returns wild, delighted, furious.

“Put me down,” you say, hitting his back because you don’t know where else to aim.

“Not yet,” he says.

Porch noise erupts and follows you. Catcalls, hands clapping, someone laughs. You flip the crowd off from upside down. Your slip climbs your legs and then pauses because his hand finds your lower thighs and keeps you decent in a way that isn’t prudish so much as mine to manage, not theirs to see.

He doesn’t hurry. He doesn’t turn this into running. He covers ground with the patience of a person who knows where he’s going and knows you’ll get there whether you agree or not. He smells like clean cotton and laundry soap, a faint hint of colonge, sweat you didn’t see him earn.

By the time you're further into campus, the noise has quieted. The library watches you go by. He lowers you the same way he lifted you, hands on your waist, setting you on your feet. The ground keeps moving for a second because the night is unfair like that. He leaves one hand at your hip, not claiming, just keeping you vertical while the world finishes its slow spin.

“Why haven’t you kissed me,” you ask. Not coy. Not begging. Just the question that’s been banging around your ribs since the porch incident days ago.

He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. He steps in so that you can see the freckles on his face; his other hand hovers near your jaw. “I want to,” he says, and the want isn’t the kind boys say. It's real. “Not like this.”

“Like what,” you say, even though you already know.

“Not when you’ve been drinking,” he says.

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth, irritated. “Inconvenient.”

“I’m inconvenient,” he says, as if he’d been planning to be. “You’ll adapt.”

The heat between you rises. He leans in, slow enough you could move if you wanted to (you don’t), and kisses you on the cheekbone, just under the black smear you made by rubbing your eye on the porch. It’s brief enough to be disciplined, long enough to be felt. He pulls back a breath; your skin goes hot where his mouth was like it’s trying to call him back.

“Coward,” you say, softer than you meant to.

“Not tonight,” he says.

You start walking because standing still is suddenly too much. He lets you set the pace and takes half a step back to match it. You bump his hand with yours on purpose, again, just testing whether the invisible wire between you is a thing he’ll acknowledge. He hooks his pinky with yours like it’s a promise.

You don’t look down. You keep your eyes forward, mouth tilted like you didn’t just get exactly what you asked for and were annoyed to like it.

“You handled me,” you say after a while.

“I moved you,” he says. “You let me.”

“That wasn’t a let,” you say, even though it was and you both know it.

He glances at you, amused. “Then I’m stronger than I thought.”

Your cheek is still warm where his mouth was. Your head is loud but clearer than it should be. You let the pinky hook stay, small and exact, and you walk the rest of the way like two lines that decided, for the moment, to be parallel on purpose.