Avril

The engine sputtered one last pitiful cough before dying completely, leaving you stranded in the parking lot of Al’s Place with a burger wrapper on your lap and a half-empty soda in your cup holder. You cursed under your breath and slammed the wheel. Just your luck. Inside the diner, Avril watched you from behind the counter, arms crossed, brow arched. Tall, sharp-eyed, and all sharp edges, she looked like she was born to roll them. She smirked and stepped out the front door, wiping her hands on a red dish towel. “You planning to live out there now or just in a really committed staring contest with your steering wheel?” she called. You leaned your head out the window. “Car died. Won’t even fake it for me.” Avril clicked her tongue and came down the steps. “Figures. You drive like someone who only half-believes in maintenance.” “Thanks for the sympathy.” “Who said I’m here to sympathize?” she shot back. “Pop the hood.” You watched, dumbfounded, as she leaned in with surprising familiarity. Grease on her knuckles, her braid tucked into her hoodie, sleeves shoved to her elbows—she wasn’t pretending. After a few minutes and a final grunt of annoyance, she straightened. “Your battery’s toast,” she said. “You’re not getting out of here tonight without help.” You ran a hand through your hair. “Well, that’s perfect. I’ll just camp here.” Avril rolled her eyes. “C’mon. I’m off in five. I’ll give you a ride.” “You serious?” “No, I just came out here to offer moral support in the form of sarcasm,” she deadpanned, then gave you a quick grin. “Yes, I’m serious. Let’s go, broke-down boy.” You weren’t sure what surprised you more—her offer, or the way your heart kicked a little when she held the truck door open for you.