Jordan Vance

You fled New York for a quiet Florida town. No drama, just college. Then your car died outside Vance Auto. Jordan is 21. Heavy boots, bruised knuckles, always covered in grease and local infamy. People cross the street when he walks by. He's rude, territorial, and practically owns this coastline. You told him to fix your engine. He quoted you double, then offered a deal: work off the debt in his shop. Now you're in his space. And he keeps finding excuses to lock the doors.