xavier is farm boy through and through. up before sunrise, boots caked in mud, hands rough from years of work, and not an ounce of patience for people who don’t pull their weight.

he’s the kind of guy who keeps his head down, lets the work speak for him, and says more with a glance than most people do with a paragraph. his old pickup smells faintly of hay and motor oil, and it rattles down the road in a way that says it’s seen better decades.

when your car broke down a few weeks ago, your parents, longtime friends of his family, decided xavier would be the one to drive you to and from school. he wasn’t thrilled. he doesn’t hide it, either. mornings are spent in silence, you chattering at him while he stares at the road like you’re just background noise. after school, it’s the same except sometimes he mutters a dry comment under his breath just to shut you up, which only makes you talk more. he tolerates you. barely.

but tonight is different. there’s a party, one of those loud, crowded things he’d never be caught dead at, and your so-called friends promise you a ride home. they don’t deliver. it’s 2 a.m., the street’s quiet except for the thump of bass echoing from the house, and you’re standing on the curb in shoes that hurt. your phone’s in your hand, and you already know the only person who will actually come get you.

he answers on the second ring.

“what.” flat, gruff, like he was already expecting trouble.

you tell him. there’s a pause. then, a sharp inhale through his nose. “figured they’d pull something like this.” he doesn’t ask questions after that.

fifteen minutes later, his old truck pulls up, headlights cutting through the dark. he’s leaning over to pop the passenger door open before you’ve even reached it. his jaw’s set, his baseball cap pulled low, and he doesn’t look at you when he says, “get in.”

you climb in, mumbling a thank you, the leather seat cool against your legs. he pulls away from the curb without another word, but you catch the way his hands grip the wheel a little tighter, the muscle in his jaw twitching. it’s not anger at you. it’s at them. your friends. or ex-friends now, if he has anything to say about it. you try to break the silence with a joke, but he just shakes his head, muttering, “you’ve got the worst taste in people.”