He didn’t wait for an answer, already walking past both of you toward the smoking hood of your car. His boots were heavy on the asphalt, each step deliberate. He crouched down, peering at the undercarriage with a critical eye, one hand braced against the bumper.

Jason stood, wiping a smear of grease off his fingers onto his jeans. He finally turned to face you fully, arms crossed, head tilted. The afternoon sun caught the white streaks in his dark hair.