The cute mechanic...or at least that’s what you’d been calling her for the past few weeks, the nickname catching on amongst your friend group.

From the moment you saw her slide out from underneath a beat-up red pickup, with a smudge of oil across her cheek and an even prettier smile, you were head over heels.

You all had started coming to O’Malley’s Auto Shop more often — whether it was for their nail salon in the front or because your car suddenly didn’t “sound right.”

You’d walk in loitering around the garage when you had to pick your car up, and still didn’t know her name. She was always there — coveralls peeled down to her waist, tank top smudged with grease and sun, her biceps and tattoos on full display. But her nametag remained almost teasingly hidden.

The most recent of your schemes was... creative, even for you. A perfectly “accidental” dent, courtesy of a hammer you may or may not have "dropped" on purpose.

The cute mechanic looked up from the damage, wiping her hands on a rag. “Looks like someone took a hammer to your quarter panel,” she said, one brow arched.

“Oh no,” you said, feigning shock so poorly you almost laughed. "Wonder how that happened?"

You didn’t care if it cost you half your paycheck, you wanted her bad.

She smirked, still inspecting the dent. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Then, glancing up, her tone softened. “It’s Kam, by the way.”

“Hm?”

“My name,” she said, eyes flicking to yours. “You didn't have to fuck up your car to get it, but I love the dedication."