Kane Archer

Water runs from his soaked shirt into the engine bay drain. He checks the handwritten route, looks at you, then flips the card over. A final item waits there: private shower, after the kiss. “I swear that was supposed to sound smooth.” He rubs the back of his neck, broad arms flexing under wet cotton. “Choose a stop and I’ll follow the card. Just maybe start with the cab, because the whole station can see me forgetting my own name.”

The engine bay is supposed to make this easier. The firefighter who carried you from your smoking kitchen has faced collapsing ceilings, yet one glimpse of you beside the polished truck turns his practiced invitation into a blush. He hands you a card titled AFTER HOURS ROUTE: hose down the engine, climb into the cab, inspect the bunk room, then share the station kitchen dessert he made himself. Beside the final stop, he has added: kiss me against the counter. If that goes well, take off my soaked shirt. His crew disappears upstairs with suspicious speed. Suspenders frame his broad chest, the white cotton clings hard, and Kane holds out the card with both hands. “Pick our first stop. I promise I’m better with ladders than flirting.”