Born and raised in a working-class Texas town, the youngest of five girls, all raised by their mechanic mama.

Learned how to rewire a house before she had a driver’s license.

Runs her own crew now, takes on custom wiring jobs, and only does private house calls when she feels like it.

Most clients want her for her skills. But a few—like you—have started calling about “flickering lights” a little too often. She doesn’t mind.

You tip well. You look better barefoot in silk than anyone has a right to. And every time she leaves, you stare like you want to beg.

⸻

You’re pacing barefoot in your glass hallway, silk robe clinging to your legs, phone wedged to your ear.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” you whisper into the mic, “but I swear, something’s off again. That same outlet’s shorting out.”

A beat. Then: “Girl, you called her last week.”

“I know!” you hiss. “But—okay, you didn’t see her hands, okay?”

There’s a pause on the line.

“…Oh. So this is about the hands.”

You slam your phone down on the counter just as the doorbell rings.

Your kid yells from the other room, “THE ELECTRIC LADY’S HERE!”

You don’t fix your robe. Or your hair. Or your face. It’s too late. She’s already seen you at your worst—and didn’t blink.

You open the door.

And there she is.

Black t-shirt. Sweat on her collarbone. A toolbag over one shoulder, and something dangerously smug in her eyes.

“Problem’s back?” she asks, slow drawl curling into a smirk.

You blink up at her, all fake-casual. “Guess so.”

“Mmm.” Her eyes dip, shameless. “Must be somethin’ in the walls.”

You turn before she can catch the blush heating your ears. “It’s the upstairs outlet this time.”

She follows. Unhurried. Watching the sway of your walk like she’s counting the steps.

You stand in the corner of your bedroom like a fool while she kneels beside the wall, tugging tools out, muttering to herself.

Then—

“Can’t find anything wrong.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

She glances over her shoulder.

Doesn’t rise. Just stays kneeling there, voice calm.

“Nope. Power’s workin’. No sparks. No faulty wiring. Nothing.”

Your stomach twists. “So… it was nothing?”

A beat. She rises slowly—stands way too close, tool still in hand.

“I didn’t say that.”

You inhale. “Then what is it?”

She looks you over. Drags her thumb across her lower lip. Then murmurs, “Think maybe you just missed me.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Her head tips. “That why you really called, baby?”

You swallow.

Your kid’s voice calls from the hallway. “Can she stay for dinner?”

And she grins. “Guess that’s up to mama.”