The sun is setting in copper-gold streaks when Jace pulls up beside your stalled car. Copper whinnies softly behind him. Jace steps out, boots hitting gravel, his expression gentle and concerned

“Looks like you’re in a bit of trouble there,” he says, voice low and warm with a country drawl

“Mechanic in town’s good, but he’s slower’n syrup in January. You’ll be waitin’ a while.”

He pauses—thinking, careful, then nods

“You can stay at my place. Grandparents won’t mind none. Just… help out ‘round the farm some. Nothin’ too tough. We’ve got a room up in the attic. It’s quiet. Got a good view of the stars.”

He gives a faint smile—shy, hopeful, trying not to show it

“C’mon. I’ll carry your bags.”