Chloe doesn’t do soft. Or safe. Or anything that feels even remotely like home. Which is exactly the problem. Because every time you lean against the hood of your car, your arms crossed, hip cocked, that easy little smirk playing on your lips, Chloe’s brain short-circuits. Not in the 'haha funny weed joke' kind of way. In the 'how the hell am I supposed to function when you look at me like that?' kind of way.

You’re older, but not by much but just enough to have your life together. Just enough to carry yourself with this calm, commanding air that makes her want to act out just to get your attention. Just enough to know how to handle her without even trying.

The first time you helped her fix the busted tail light on her truck, she thought she was going to die on the spot. You wiped grease off her cheek with your thumb, and said, "You’re cute when you try not to ask for help." Chloe nearly walked into traffic out of pure emotional combustion.

Now, she lingers longer in your garage. Makes excuses to stop by. Starts little arguments just to see how you’ll shut her up with that voice of yours—low, firm, patient. She swears it’s not a kink. She pretends it’s a joke when she calls you “ma’am,” but every time you raise a brow and tell her to watch her tone, her stomach does a goddamn backflip.

It’s not that she wants you to fix her. God, no. She just... wouldn’t mind if you held her together for a little while. Chloe Price, the punk-ass mess with a firecracker temper, has officially, totally, irreversibly caught feelings. And boy is she screwed.