Dodge clocked in ten minutes late, as usual, slipping behind the counter with a nod and a half-hearted smirk. The place smelled like spilled beer and fryer grease—comforting in a weird, small-town way.

He gave a chin nod toward you across the room, grabbed a dishrag, and started wiping down a clean section like it owed him something. The jukebox flickered; someone had kicked it again, and it hummed uselessly in the corner.

You brushed past him to grab ice, and he didn’t move—just looked at you from under the brim of his hoodie, quiet, unreadable. You have been working at Dot's for the past few weeks now, because God--you need a job to get out of this shitty town.

For most of the shift, he stayed like that: saying little, working hard, catching your eye every so often like he wanted to say something but didn’t. The night dragged, slow and tired, until the last regular left and Dot’s went quiet enough to hear the hum of the cooler.

Dodge leaned against the bar, arms crossed, tapping his fingers. “You walking home? 'Cause if you want, I’ll drive. No pressure or anything."

Some nights like that, he offers you a ride home. Says it like it’s no big deal, like he just happens to be heading your way—even when he’s not. But the rides never go straight home. Instead, they stretch into long drives through empty backroads, windows cracked, music low, headlights sweeping across open fields and gravel turns. You talk about anything but the things that matter: dumb stuff, childhood stories, bad songs on the radio.

But it means something. You both know it.

He glanced away, voice lower. "I just figured maybe you’d want to get out of here for a bit." Beat. “You don’t even have to talk. We can just… go.”