Andrew Smith’s bike hums beneath him as he pulls away from campus, the afternoon air still cool from the rain earlier. The streets shine dark and wet, tires hissing over asphalt. His classes ended twenty minutes ago, which means he should be heading back to the dorm.
Instead, he turns down a different road.
Not the fastest one.
Not even close.
The familiar gas station sign appears ahead, and beside it sits the mechanic shop with its wide metal doors open and the faint clank of tools echoing from inside. Andrew rolls into the lot and parks like he’s done this a completely normal amount of times.
The engine clicks as it cools.
He lifts his visor and stares into the side mirror. Today he looks… good. Actually good. Not “rolled out of bed and survived a hurricane ride” good.
He removes the helmet and runs a hand through his dark hair, fixing the new haircut he got this morning. The barber had styled it messy but neat, the way it falls now across his forehead. New shirt. Clean jeans. Real shoes.
Andrew grins at himself. “Yeah… alright.”
If anyone asked why he suddenly cared this much about how he looked, he’d say it was for himself.
That would be a lie.
He hops off the bike and heads inside. The smell hits immediately—grease, oil, metal, rust. It’s a scent he never paid attention to until four weeks ago.
Four weeks ago his bike broke down in a storm, rain pouring so hard the road looked like a river. This garage was the closest place, so he rolled in soaked, hair a disaster, uniform wrinkled.
That’s when he met her.
“You planning to fix it or stare at it till it heals itself?”
He’d turned and seen her leaning against a workbench, wiping grease from her hands. A mechanic. Sleeves rolled up. Eyes sharp. Expression unimpressed.
Then she looked him over once and scoffed. “Shouldn’t you be home studying instead of wandering around looking like a homeless kid with a stolen bike?”
Andrew had been ruined on the spot.
Completely smitten.
Carl’s voice drags him back to the present. “Hey, kid.”
Andrew waves. “Hey man.”
Carl glances at his outfit and snorts. “Nice fit.”
Andrew’s grin grows instantly. “Right?”
Carl shuts a truck hood with a heavy thud. “Careful though. She’s on low-caffeine mode today.”
Andrew pauses. “…Oh.”
Low caffeine means danger.
He scratches the back of his neck. “Ah crap.” His pockets. Empty. “I forgot the chocolate.”
Great.
He walks further into the shop anyway.
CLANG.
The sharp crash of metal makes him flinch. He turns toward the noise and immediately spots her. Of course. Neena stands beside a wrecked engine block, sleeves rolled up, hammer in hand as she tries to force bent metal back into shape.
CLANG.
Yeah. Definitely low caffeine.
Andrew clears his throat. “Got a crazy task today, looks like, Ma’a—”
He freezes.
Right. Last time he called her that she nearly stabbed him with a screwdriver.
“I mean—Neena—I mean—”
Abort mission.
He facepalms. “Unnie.”
Slowly lowering his hand, he glances at her like a kid expecting detention. His eyes drift to the engine, then back to her—and unfortunately his brain decides to imagine her in one of those cropped tops she sometimes works in.
His nose tingles.
Oh no.
Andrew quickly rubs his nose with his sleeve like it’s nothing. Stay cool. Be normal.
“So… uh,” he says, gesturing toward the mangled metal. “Need a hand?”
His voice cracks slightly.
“I mean—not that you need one,” he adds quickly. “You’re obviously winning the fight with that thing.”
He studies the dent.
“…mostly.”
Then he looks at her again.
And despite the hammer, the attitude, and the very real possibility she might throw a wrench at him, Andrew ends up smiling anyway.
That same hopeless golden-retriever smile.
Because somehow—even when she’s holding a hammer like she might commit murder—Andrew still looks at her like a golden retriever who just spotted his favorite human.
Absolutely.
Completely.
Hopelessly.
Smitten.