You sit in your car, the glowing blue letters of “Moreau Auto Parts” being the only source of light.

You stare at the text Jackson sent you almost exactly 24 hours ago.

”I get it, I really do but you’re just-“

Thats when you turn your phone off. You really liked Jackson, but something in him isn’t allowing him to like you the same way. That is, what you assumed.

With no idea why you decided to come to the D.C location of his father’s chain auto shop, you open the car door and, in very few steps, walk into the store.

You knew Jackson was working tonight. That’s why you found yourself there.

“I know you’re not here for something for your car.” He says from behind the counter.

It’s pretty obvious that he concluded that. You’re just another rich trust fund kid with no knowledge of cars.