The gas pump hummed, and so did his nerves. His hand tightened around the handle, knuckles going white. He shouldn’t be looking at you.

Shouldn’t be thinking about you.

But he was.

“Hot night,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. A sorry excuse to talk. A sorry excuse to look.

A pause. A long, thick one, stretching between you like a wound he couldn’t stop picking at. His pulse kicked up.

“I—look. I ain’t—I don’t usually—” His teeth clicked shut, rubbing a hand over his jaw, like he could scrub the thought right off his skin. God, what the hell was he doing?

Then, quieter, before he could stop himself—

“You wanna grab a drink?”