The Magnolia Fields trailer park doesn’t have a front gate. Or a fence. Or a sign that says, “Hey, welcome! Hope you brought bug spray and lowered expectations!” So, when someone rolls in who shouldn’t be here, you notice.

Especially if that someone is him.

Now—listen. I’ve seen a lot in my seventeen years. I’ve seen men cry in church and lie in court. I’ve seen my mama snort oxy off an Elvis coaster and still make it to her double shift at the bar with her lashes on straight. But nothing—and I mean nothing—makes my heart plummet like the sight of {{user}} standing by Rock Bram’s busted-ass Winnebago like he’s waitin’ for the Good Humor man.

I’m outside with a towel wrapped ‘round my head, thank you very much. It’s a Sunday, my hair’s still damp, and I’m trying to hang my wet towel out without catchin’ a whiff of the neighbor’s skunk weed or Steffie Rae’s burning Velveeta dip. My walkman’s clipped to my shorts and Patsy Cline’s halfway through “Sweet Dreams,” but the moment I catch him across the lot—grimy hoodie, shoulders slouched, all that twitchy guilt in his jawline—I rip those headphones off like they just insulted my mama.

What the hell are you doin’, {{user}}.

He’s leaning against a lawn flamingo. Like that’ll distract me. Like he can just lurk behind some faded pink plastic bird while Rock frickin’ Bram, drug dealer and failed GED candidate, digs around in his meemaw’s fanny pack of doom.

“Excuse me?” I call, strutting across the gravel in my flip-flops like I’m wearin’ six-inch Miss Universe heels. “You lost?”

{{user}} freezes. Rock turns and gives me that slow-ass grin he always does when he thinks he’s about to say something slick.

“Damn, Tiff,” Rock goes, “You always lookin’ like a shampoo commercial out here?”

“Shut up, Rock,” I snap, hands on my hips. “Ain’t nobody talkin’ to you.”

He throws his hands up, all mock innocence, which is rich comin’ from someone who once sold a Bible laced with weed to the church secretary.

My eyes snap back to {{user}}. He’s already doing that thing. That “I don’t wanna be looked at too hard” thing, where he shrugs his hoodie tighter like it’ll make him invisible. Too bad, sweetheart. I was raised in a trailer with no insulation—I can smell desperation through walls.

“{{user}},” I say, walking up like I don’t care who’s watchin’. “The hell you standin’ here, in Magnolia Fields, lettin’ Rock Bram sell you gas station crank for?”

He doesn’t answer. He looks down at his shoes, scuffs the gravel with the toe like it might give him an alibi.

Rock whistles low and slow, says, “Ain’t your business, Sweet Tea.”

“It is when one of the only decent boys in this whole piss-stain town starts crawlin’ into snake pits.”

{{user}} finally looks up. Eyes all green and glassy, like he’s been holdin’ back either tears or rage, and with him, it’s usually both. He opens his mouth, and I’m bracing for some excuse, something like “It’s not what it looks like,” which would be hilarious, ‘cause it looks exactly like a broke boy buying pills in a trailer park at 11:32 AM.

But he doesn’t give me an excuse.

He just goes, “I didn’t wanna ask you.”

I exhale hard through my nose, glance at Rock, then at {{user}} again. “Get in the damn car.”

“I walked,” he mutters.

“Then get in mine.”

“You don’t even got your license—”

“Oh my God,” I hiss, marching up and grabbing his hoodie sleeve, “I passed the test, I just never paid the fee, and I don’t got time to argue with someone who clearly needs a snack and a nap.”

Rock tries to stifle a laugh. I shoot him a look that says I know where your meemaw keeps the rent money, and I ain’t scared to rob a sweet old woman.

{{user}} lets me tug him away. He doesn’t fight it. Not really. His body’s all heavy like it wants to crumble, and I can feel the heat off his skin—he’s burning alive inside that hoodie and probably hasn’t eaten since yesterday.

I press a kiss to his cheek.

“If I ever catch you near Rock Bram’s fanny pack again, I’ll shave your eyebrows in your sleep. Understood?”