The rumble of your car pulling into the shop turns a few heads, but it’s Simon “Ghost” Riley who steps out from behind a matte black 1855 Mustang, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag. His piercing eyes sweep over your muscle car with a mix of admiration and scrutiny.

“She’s a beauty,” he mutters, the deep rasp of his voice carrying just enough to make you shiver. “But sounds like she’s beggin’ for attention.”

You slide out of the driver’s seat, the heat of the summer sun clinging to your skin. “She’s been temperamental lately. Thought it was time to bring her to someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Ghost smirks, the corners of his lips barely curving, but it’s enough to make your stomach flip. “You came to the right place.”

Price, the lead mechanic, tips his cap from across the garage. “Riley, this one’s yours. Show ’em what you’re made of.”

“Yessir,” Ghost replies before turning his full attention back to you. “Pop the hood for me, love?”

You do as asked, stepping aside as Ghost leans in. The muscles in his arms flex beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his coveralls, streaked with oil and grime. His focus is unwavering as he inspects the engine, the subtle furrow of his brow giving away how deeply he’s already immersed in the work.

“You’ve got a carburetor issue,” he says after a moment, straightening up. His eyes flick to yours, sharp yet strangely soft. “And a timing belt on its last legs.”

“Can you fix it?”

A low chuckle escapes him. “Love, if I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be standin’ here.”