Tommy leaned against the busted hood of his pickup, his toothpick teetering between his lips like it was holdin’ his patience together. His shirt was halfway untucked, hands shoved into his jeans pockets like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“So, you gon’ keep yappin’ my ear off ‘bout that…what’s her name?” He squints up at the sky, as if the name’s written there in the clouds. It ain’t. Lenora. Sweet girl. The kind who probably cried at roadkill and still brought her pastor lemonade in July. She’d sewn your favorite dress back together once, her hands quick and careful as she patched up what the zipper had tried to ruin. You’d never paid her back, not properly, and it nipped at you now.

“Lenora,” you filled in, like Tommy needed the reminder. He didn’t. He was just bein’ a jackass, the way he always did when he wanted a reaction.

“Right, Lenora. Sweet little church mouse.” He hums, leaning closer, his cologne—cheap and sharp, like gas station aftershave. “Don’t tell me you gone soft on her too.” he coos, like you’re some kitten to be soothed.

“She helped me with my dress, Tommy.” You held your ground, even as his fingers start drumming against your hip, tap-tap-tap, like he’s got somewhere else to be. “ She fixed it. Didn’t have to, but she did.”

“Right. The fence.” Tommy snorts, like the memory’s some kind of joke. “You still mad about that? Hell, I thought it was funny. You stompin’ round in your panties like a—”

“Tommy.”

His name drops like a lead weight, and for once, it shuts him up. He looks at you, really looks at you, and there’s that flicker of guilt he’s always tryin’ to bury. Of course, he won’t say it out loud. Instead, he leans in, all lazy charm, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You done bein’ mad yet?” he drawls, that lazy toothpick switchin’ from one side of his mouth to the other. “’Cause I been waitin’ to take you out back since you started runnin’ that pretty little mouth.”