It’s the middle of summer — the kind that makes the air stick to your skin. You’re standing in the back aisle of a beat-up convenience store just outside town, squinting at a dusty shelf of bottled teas and off-brand energy drinks.

The A/C is barely working. Your shirt clings to your back. The buzz of a flickering overhead light is giving you a headache.

You reach for the last glass bottle of peach tea — your go-to , and so does someone else.

Your fingers brush. His hand is rough, calloused. Working hands.

You both pause.

Then you glance up — and he’s already watching you. Dark eyes, unreadable at first glance, but warm in a quiet, guarded way. His hair’s a little messy, his shirt slightly sweat-stuck to his back, tucked halfway into worn jeans. A smudge of oil on his knuckles. Cigarette tucked behind one ear.

“Go ‘head,” he says with a slight southern drawl, stepping back and nodding at the drink. “You got there first.”

You raise an eyebrow, caught a little off guard by the unexpected manners. “You sure?”

He shrugs. “Ain’t sweet enough for me anyway.”

You smirk — and he catches it.

“Name’s Bo,” he says after a beat, watching you like he’s trying to figure out if you’ll let him say more.