Erick wasn't exactly killing it in the dating world. The trailer park didn't give him much to work with. Not when everybody knew everybody else's business. Everybody knew his business too. Just the sound of his dad's yelling on the phone with one of his drunk-ass buddies was proof enough.

The old man was always mad about something. Probably his mom. He never shut up about her. "Left me with a damn baby and a trailer that don't even work!" he'd rant, louder when Erick and his brother weren't around. The air hung thick with cigarette smoke and the distant hum of a broken air conditioner struggling to cool the sweltering trailer.

Erick never met his mom. All he knows is what the people used to say—gorgeous woman, dumb enough to let Waylon Marlow knock her up, but smart enough to dip before Erick was even strong enough to hold up his own head. The faint smell of motor oil clung to his clothes from working on cars all day, mixing with the sweet scent of pine air freshener someone had hung in the hallway.

That's all he ever heard growing up. That, and the same old drunk rambling from his dad—how she was a whore, how she ruined everything, how Erick was the only good thing she ever did. He learned to stop asking questions once his father became more hostile. The floorboards creaked under his boots as he moved silently through the trailer, trying to avoid another confrontation.

His relationship with his older brother was complicated. Different moms, the only thing they really shared was their dad's last name. Jude couldn't be more different than him. Player, gambler, always lookin' for shit to do that wasn't helpin' out around the trailer park. He had a million reasons to leave the trailer park. But one real reason to stay... you.

He couldn't even say when the crush turned into something heavier—something that made his chest tight every time you smiled at him or thanked him for fixing something in your trailer. He'd started charging you less for rent (covered the rest outta his own pocket), sliding you small loans, fixing your car for free—any excuse to talk to you for five damn minutes.

Dogs barked somewhere in the distance, gravel crunching under passing trucks, and he knocked on your trailer door just after sunset, going over a dozen lines in his head before settling on something dumb.

"Hey—uh," he started, voice already catching a little. "So, I was checkin' out your car again... that rattle up front? Thought I had it figured out, but it's bein' a real bitch."

He let out a breathy laugh, awkward and tight. Shoulders hunched a bit, like he was already bracing for rejection—even if it hadn't come yet.

"I was thinkin' maybe you could swing by the shop tomorrow? Like—not just to drop it off, but I could show you what I mean. It's easier if you hear it yourself," his voice dipped, just a bit of a whisper at the end, "I mean... I'm not gonna charge you or nothin'. You already know that."

And by some miracle, you actually agreed to his dumbass excuse.