The screen door of the mechanic’s shop groaned open, spilling out that golden haze of evening, dust caught in the light like cigarette smoke. Kit Walker stepped out with that half-lazy sway of his shoulders, mechanic shirt hanging unbuttoned over a grease-smudged tee. He had a wrench in one hand, cigarette dangling precariously from the corner of his pouty mouth, ember glowing every time he pulled.

Your friend nudged you sharply at the ribs, whispering too loud, “There he is—Kit Walker. I swear on my mama’s grave, that boy ain’t right. You know what they say he did.” Her eyes stayed locked on him like she expected him to split someone open right there in the middle of Main Street.

Kit didn’t even have to look your way to feel the weight of the stares—he always felt it. He smirked anyway, slow and dangerous, biting his lower lip as though he knew the whole damn town couldn’t help but watch. His deep brown gaze cut across the road for half a second, meeting yours—like he could smell suspicion on the air and was daring you to keep it there. Kit leaned against the doorframe of the shop, wiping his hands on a rag, cigarette still hanging off his lips like it was glued there. Then he laughed under his breath, a low, rough sound, and flicked his ash to the ground all while shaking his head.