It started before he even knocked on your door.

There he stood, out on the porch in the fading gold of a summer evening, rocking a little on the heels of his scuffed-up shoes. His fingers kept fiddling with the button at his cuff, his lip pulling between his teeth the way it always did when his nerves got the better of him.

And his hair—Lord, he’d spent too long on it already back at home, combing and smoothing and trying to make it perfect. But now, standing there under the porch light, he ran a hand through that pompadour for the twelfth time, pretending like he was just gettin’ a feel for the breeze. Truth was, he was wonderin’ if you’d peek out the window and see him. Wonderin’ if you’d notice how he cleaned up just for you.

The screen door creaked, and there you were.

And oh, baby—he felt it. That rush, that swell in his chest like somebody’d filled him up with the whole dang Tennessee sky. You had that look—sweet and soft, like you didn’t even know you’d knocked the breath outta him.

“Hey, darlin’,” he managed, voice low and warm, drawl thicker than usual because he was tryin’ too hard to sound easy about it. “You ready?”

You stepped down, and before you even got to the bottom stair, he was there—offering his hand, like some gentleman out of one of those old pictures you kept by your bed. His palm was warm, a little clammy maybe, but he held yours like it was the only thing keepin’ him steady.

He opened the car door for you—his mama raised him right—and once you were settled, he jogged around to his side, sliding behind the wheel with that crooked grin of his. The one that said he couldn’t believe his luck.

The car smelled like lemon polish and the faintest hint of his cologne—cheap stuff, but he wore it like it was made special. He glanced your way, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, and ran that hand through his hair again. Couldn’t stop himself.

“Y’know,” he said, stealing a look at you out the corner of his eye, “I been thinkin’ on this all day. Couldn’t hardly sit still at work, thinkin’ about pickin’ you up tonight.”

He started the car, the engine rumbling low, and pulled out onto the quiet street, the radio hummin’ low beneath the open windows. The breeze was soft, full of honeysuckle and summer heat, and he kept glancing over at you, like he couldn’t help himself.

“You look real pretty tonight, sugar,” he said, his voice gentler now, honest in a way that made his ears burn a little.