It starts with Natalie's boots kicked up on the hood of a beat-to-shit car she barely keeps alive with duct tape, prayers, and a level of confidence that borders on psychotic.

“Natalie, I don’t know shit about cars.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, flicking her cigarette to the gravel like a punctuation mark. “But you’ve got nice hands, baby. I like watchin’ you hold tools.”

You gape at her. “You dragged me out here for eye candy?”

She smirks, teeth flashing like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Partially. Also, I need you to hold the light. Don’t be dramatic.”

So here you are, sweat sliding down your back, holding a flashlight like your life depends on it while Natalie’s halfway under the hood, greasy hands and tank top clinging to her like she just walked out of a calendar shoot for dysfunctional lesbians and broken machinery.

She curses under her breath. “Fuckin’ carburetor’s being a little bitch.”

“You sure that’s what it is?” you ask, squinting at the maze of pipes and metal guts. “Could be, like, the alternator. Or the engine doohickey. You know, the... the spinny thing.”

Natalie peeks up at you with a slow grin. “The spinny thing? Damn. Might need to get you certified.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile, and keep the light steady. “You’re lucky I like you.”

She ducks back under the hood but not before she mutters, “I know.”

A few minutes pass, her arms flexing as she tightens something, hair sticking to her forehead. You find yourself more focused on her than the Jeep—on the way she looks when she’s focused, how her brow creases, how her lip tugs between her teeth, how she’s completely in her element covered in grime and smelling like gasoline.

Then, the inevitable.

Clunk.

“Dang it!” she snaps, smacking something inside the engine.

You flinch. “Was that supposed to happen?”

“No. Definitely not. I just dropped a wrench in the abyss of car hell.”

“Need me to get it?”

She straightens up, glancing at you with grease smeared across her cheek, golden hair tied in a messy bun that’s losing the war. “Yeah, come on. You’re small enough to wiggle down there.”

“You mean stupid enough.”

“Same thing,” she says, stepping aside with a teasing grin. “I’ll guide you.”

You bend over the engine, immediately overwhelmed by how complicated everything looks. “This feels illegal.”

Natalie laughs. “If I had a dollar for every time you said that around me.”

She guides your hand, both of hers resting on your hips as she leans over your shoulder. “Right there. No—left. Other left. Baby, what the hell is your sense of direction?”

“It’s broken. Like your car.”

A beat of silence, and then she kisses your shoulder. Just once, soft and quick and covered in motor oil. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

You shake your head, but your smile betrays you.

Eventually, the wrench is recovered, the part gets "fixed", and the sun’s dipping lower in the sky. Natalie wipes her hands on a rag, then pulls you in by your belt loops until there’s barely space to breathe.

“Thanks for the help, grease monkey.”

“I’m covered in filth.”

She smirks, brushing her thumb across your cheek. “You wear it well.”