You wandered down the driveway with slow, unhurried steps, your hands tucked behind your back while the hem of your little ruffled dress danced around your thighs in the warm afternoon breeze.

The second you reached the open garage, a sly smile tugged at your lips.

There he was.

Half-hidden beneath the rusted body of his old Chevrolet, worn boots sticking out from underneath the truck he refused to give up on no matter how many times it broke down on him.

“I know you’re there, darlin’.”

His voice rolled out low and rough from beneath the vehicle, confident enough to make heat creep beneath your skin. His hearing was sharp for a man his age— not old exactly, just older. Around your father’s age, maybe. The kind of man carved from years of hard work, cigarette smoke, and silence.

He’d heard you the moment your patent leather Mary Janes clicked against the concrete floor of his garage.

Beau moved in next door months ago, settling into the weathered house beside your parents’ place like he’d always belonged there. And from the very first day, he caught your attention.

Maybe it was the sight of him leaning against the porch beam with a cigarette dangling between his lips, looking far too dangerous for a quiet neighborhood like this one.

Maybe it was the thick veins winding down his forearms whenever he worked on that damned truck.

Or maybe it was the silver threaded through his dark hair — subtle enough to show his age, but only making him more handsome somehow.

Whatever it was, you couldn’t stop looking at him.

And he noticed.

He noticed every lingering glance you stole from your porch. Every shameless sweep of your eyes over his body. Every teasing smile you gave him when he caught you staring.

Because the truth was, you looked at him like you wanted to ruin yourself on him.

And lately?

He was starting to look back the same way.