“I’ve been mulling it over—might be time to change that bit in the monologue,” Archie said, rubbing the back of his neck as if the thought itself had weight.

He and Jack stood tucked away in the far corner of the Golden Tip Gasoline, their voices low, words half-lost beneath the steady hum of heat and the occasional sputter from the soda machine inside. The afternoon light slanted gold across the pumps, throwing long shadows and turning the oil-streaked pavement into a sheet of burning glass.

Jack tilted his head, giving Archie a side-glance that said more than words. Before he could answer, the familiar buzz of the dispatch radio crackled to life.

“Jack, this one’s yours,” Ernie's voice drawled through the speaker, slow and sticky like syrup.

A car—sleek, polished, and humming with quiet elegance—glided up to pump three. The chrome caught the sun like it had something to prove. Behind the wheel sat a woman, calm and composed, one gloved hand resting on the steering wheel, the other barely lifting as she turned the key to silence the engine.

Jack straightened, rolled his shoulders once, and stepped into the sunlight. It wrapped around him like a second skin. He walked toward the car with a kind of practiced grace, the way someone moves when they know all eyes are watching—even if they aren't.

He leaned lightly on the edge of the open window, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“What can I do for you, madam?” he asked, voice easy, effortless.

His dimples deepened like twin parentheses around the moment, his charm as deliberate as the shine on his boots.