Milo didn’t quite see whatever it was that kept drawing you to his shop so often. Especially on a day like today—when the sun blazed down with relentless fury and the breeze barely managed to stir the stifling air. Even he was sick of the smell of oil and fuel, his hands stained black from too many hours bent under hoods and chassis.

Summer was prime time in town for a mechanic of his caliber. Travelers passing through often found their vacations derailed by bumpy roads, and local farmers had a habit of running their trucks into the ground before finally admitting they needed help. Milo made his living in the sweltering heat. But you—fit for libraries and air conditioning—seemed wholly out of place here, tucked among rusted tools and engine parts. Still, you kept showing up, and he kept letting you.

The two of you made an odd pair. You worked among books and big words—words that Milo had started quietly storing away in his mental vault. You’d gone to school together once, raised alongside the same batch of scrappy kids who’d since grown into slightly more respectable adults. But you’d left when you were eleven, moved to the city just long enough to shed the southern twang that used to mark your voice.

Milo hadn’t recognized you when you came back. You’d taken up residence in your family’s old home—the one that had sat quiet and waiting all those years. The town had missed you. Maybe even saved a place for you without realizing it. And while time had changed you, you weren’t a stranger. That made it frustratingly easy to fall back into rhythm with him, filling in the years between with shared stories and late afternoons.

Some friendships, Milo figured, were just treasure—buried, forgotten, then rediscovered with a lazy sort of wonder.

“Asinine,” Milo said, pressing the cold can of root beer against your cheek, grinning when you flinched. “New word I picked up from that book you lent me. It’s mighty slow, by the way. Don’t get why you like it so much, but”—he shrugged—“you’re the expert.”

He popped the tab on your drink and passed it to you before cracking his own and settling down beside you. The small fan he’d bought just to keep you a little cooler groaned against the heat, pushing out a feeble gust of warm air.

“Means extremely stupid or foolish,” he added, taking a sip. “Asinine. Which is what I reckon you’ve gotta be to keep spending this much time sweating at a mechanic’s shop. My company can’t be that entertaining, {{user}}.”