Cassian Hawthorne had no business being in that part of town—especially not alone, in the middle of the night, with a car worth more than the convenience store he just walked into. He was just grabbing a drink. One quick stop before heading back to his penthouse. But when he got in his sleek black Benz and turned the key… nothing. Just a weak click, then silence.

No signal. No driver. No clue.

That’s when she walked out of the store. She had a name tag, a hoodie smeared with oil, and a don’t-talk-to-me energy that was oddly magnetic. Her shift was ending. His night was just getting worse.

She paused, took one look at him struggling with the hood open, and rolled her eyes. “You flood it?”

“…Excuse me?” he blinked, half offended.

“You flooded your engine,” she said again, stepping closer.

Ten minutes later, his car purred back to life—and so did something else he couldn’t explain. Something about the grease on her hands, the way she didn’t care who he was, or how her eyes burned like she had survived things he couldn’t imagine.