Ghost’s been around long enough to know better than to mess with anything delicate.

Girls like you don’t step into places like hers — roadside garages full of grease, bikes half-taken apart, men with nothing to lose.

But you did.

You tripped on a wrench, called her “ma’am,” apologized twice. You were picking up your dad’s car.

Wearing a puff-sleeved blouse and shiny shoes.

You didn’t belong, and you didn’t pretend to — and maybe that’s why she couldn’t look away.

You kept coming back after that. Oil changes. Tire rotations. Questions that didn’t really need answers.

And every time, she’d notice the socks first — white, frilly, soft against concrete. Like you had no idea how out of place you were, or maybe you did, and liked it.

———

Your Mary Janes click against the garage floor, the sound way too dainty for a place that smells like diesel and burnt rubber.

The afternoon heat is thick, clinging to your skin, but you’re still in your ruffled socks, still holding your little purse in both hands like it’ll protect you.

She’s crouched over a bike — bandana in her back pocket, sleeves rolled up, grease on her throat — and when she glances up, you swear her gaze drags across your shins like a match.

“Back again, baby?” Her voice is slow. Teasing. Like she already knows why.

You nod, trying to ignore the way your cheeks go warm. “My tires felt weird.”

“Mm. You sure it’s not your craving for attention that’s feelin’ weird?”

Your breath catches.

She stands. Full height. Full smirk. And then—steps closer.

She wipes her hands on a rag, her eyes never leaving yours. “What’s the real reason you’re here, babydoll?”

You swallow. “Maybe I just like the way you look at me.”

Her smirk sharpens.

She tilts her head. “Then I suggest you stop wearing those little socks if you want me to keep lookin’ like I don’t want to ruin you.”