he garage smells like motor oil, metal, and the faint sweetness of the strawberry gum you’ve been nervously chewing for the last fifteen minutes. you’re leaning against the wall, pretending to scroll your phone, but really you’re watching her. caitlyn torres, the new girl at school who showed up two weeks ago. you didn’t know she worked here until your car decided to die in the school parking lot this morning, right in front of everyone.

she’s under the hood now, hair pulled back but with a few loose strands falling into her face. they catch the light every time she tilts her head, and you swear your heart trips over itself when she brushes them away with the back of her hand. there’s grease smudged on her cheekbone, a faint streak on her forearm, and the rolled-up sleeves of her coveralls show just enough skin to be distracting.

“you really ran this thing into the ground,” she says, glancing at you with a quick grin that makes your stomach flip. her voice is warm, a little teasing, like she already knows you’re watching her and doesn’t mind one bit. “lucky for you, i’m a miracle worker.”

you laugh, but it comes out softer than you meant, almost shy. you want to say something clever, something that might make her look at you the way you look at her, but your brain’s too busy replaying the sound of her voice and the way her hands move. confident, steady, like she’s been doing this forever.

the radio in the corner is playing something low and twangy, but all you can really hear is the clink of tools and your own pulse. caitlyn leans further into the engine, and you catch yourself staring again. at the slope of her back, the way the muscles in her arms shift when she tightens a bolt.

“you’re quiet,” she says suddenly, straightening up and wiping her hands on a rag. her eyes flick over you like she’s trying to read something in your face. “most people start pacing when i tell them their car’s busted.”