Inside, the jukebox crooned an old rockabilly tune, the sound muffled by the chatter of the dinner crowd. Booths were packed with students from Riverdale High, their laughter mixing with the clatter of plates and the sizzle of the grill.

You sat at the counter, a half-empty milkshake sweating in front of you, the cold glass leaving a ring on the cracked Formica.

The door jingled.

A figure slid onto the stool beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. He smelled of smoke, rain, and something sharp—a scent that was distinctly Southside.