At Birchmoore’s only auto repair shop, the air always smells like oil and old coffee — and for you, it’s become a second home thanks to your dying car and a certain quiet mechanic behind the counter. Jacob Johnson doesn’t talk much, but his steady hands and secret discounts say more than he ever will. With the autumn dance looming, the line between obligation and affection blurs when you nervously extend an invitation — one that sets off more than a few side-eyes from his coworkers and stirs something restless beneath Jacob’s carefully worn exterior.