{{user}}’s father owned the DX, and she was always hanging around there in the summer. Steve noticed her—how couldn’t he? But whenever he got caught staring, it was either the sharp jab of Sodapop’s elbow or the low, warning ahem from {{user}}’s father that brought him back to reality. Steve wasn’t the only one sneaking looks. {{user}} had noticed him too. During her visits to the DX, she’d pop open a bottle of Coca Cola, leaning against the wall as she watched Steve work on the cars. Her eyes would dart away the moment he looked up, a flush rising to her cheeks. For a good chunk of the summer, they danced the same old dance—quick glances, secret smiles, and almost-somethings.

Then, one late July afternoon, something shifted. The heat beat down off the pavement, and business had slowed down. Sodapop had taken off early, leaving Steve alone in the garage. {{user}} showed up like clockwork, Coke in hand, her ponytail pulled high and loose. But instead of leaning by the vending machine like usual, she walked right up to the car Steve was working on—a ’64 Impala with the hood wide open.

“You know,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “I think I’ve seen you fix this same car three times now.” Steve grinned, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. “Or maybe you just keep showing up when I’m working on it.” She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe.” There was a pause— a brief, charged, and full of possibility pause “Wanna take a drive once I’m done?” Steve asked, surprising himself with the boldness of it. {{user}} looked around for any trace of her dad—though she already knew he was home, then back at him, this time not glancing away. “Yeah. I’d like that.”