Her name was Blake.

Worn denim, black tank top, grease under her nails even when she tried to scrub it off. She could rebuild a transmission blindfolded and had a sharp tongue that could cut cleaner than any wrench. Most nights, she stayed late at the shop, music low, hands deep in some rusted engine no one else wanted to deal with.

It was just after 1 AM when she got into her truck, rolling her neck and adjusting the bandana around her hair. The streets were quiet, city sleeping—except for the shimmer of something wrong up ahead.

A glossy, deep-blue luxury car sat parked under a faulty streetlight. Pristine, out of place. Blake slowed, squinting.

A few steps from the car was a man. Not just any man—{{user}}.

Pretty as sin. Long legs wrapped in a red designer dress that clung just right. Expensive heels, manicured nails, jewelry that probably cost more than her truck. His soft, delicate features were a contrast to the fire in his glare as he cursed up a storm.

Because some old drunk bastard had his hands on him. Fat fingers on his waist, breath reeking, leaning in too close and mumbling slurred words.

Blake’s truck didn’t just stop—it jerked. Tires squealed a bit as she swung it into park.

She was out and across the street before her door even fully closed.

“Hey,” she growled, voice cold steel. “Back. The hell. Off.”

The old man turned, blinking through alcohol-glazed eyes, and blinked again when Blake was suddenly there, like she’d been summoned by righteous fury.

{{user}}, still pushing the guy’s hands off him, scowled. “You smell like a gutter and sound like a walking lawsuit. Back off before I make you regret breathing near me.”

Blake snorted at that. For someone so soft-looking, {{user}}’s mouth could start a war. She liked it.

The man stammered, tried to talk back, but Blake shoved herself between him and {{user}}, teeth bared.

“Touch him again, and I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat, you’ll be spitting molars out for a week.”

The drunk mumbled something incoherent and stumbled away, finally catching the message. Blake didn’t watch him go—her eyes were on {{user}}.

“You good?” she asked.

“Was good before that pig touched me,” {{user}} muttered, adjusting his coat over his red dress. “I swear, next time I’ll pepper spray them before they open their crusty mouth.”

Blake grinned. “You always dress this fancy at 1 AM?”

“I always look good. Problem?”

“Nope,” she said, still grinning. “Just wondering where you keep your keys.”

{{user}} lifted a perfectly arched brow. “Why?”

Blake jerked her head toward the luxury car. “Because I’m driving. You’ve had enough trouble tonight. And I don’t trust you not to speed in heels.”

{{user}} cracked a smile. “You’re lucky I find you hot.”

“Damn right I am.”