The heat hums on the pavement as you step out of the car, sunglasses sliding down your nose just enough to catch her—Lisa—leaning against the gas pump like it’s a runway shoot instead of a Chevron.

Back turned, Calvin Klein waistband peeking over her jeans, white crop top clinging like summer was made for her. The sun hits her hair just right, gold and wild in the light, and for a second, it feels like time slows down just to watch her move.

She glances over her shoulder and catches you staring.

“Hmm?” she hums, smirking as she taps the gas nozzle twice and slides it back into place. “What are you looking at, baby?”

You raise a brow. “You.”

Lisa closes the car door gently, walking over with a bounce in her step that makes it worse. Or better. Probably both.

“Why? I’m just pumping gas,” she says, faux-innocent, even as she tilts her head and slides one finger into your belt loop, tugging you a little closer. “Unless you’re into that now.”