1995, summer.

Dylan had been secretly seeing {{user}}—the local mechanic’s daughter—for some time now.

It was another sweltering summer afternoon. Her shift at The Blue Spruce didn’t start until ten p.m, which meant she had just enough time to drop by. As she approached {{user}}’s house, she spotted the open garage, the scent of motor oil hanging thick in the air. Without hesitation, she stepped closer.

"Hey?" Dylan called out, scanning the space for any sign of her.

And then she saw her.

{{user}} was hunched over the open hood of a car, her hair sticking to the nape of her neck, sweat glistening on her skin. She wore a black tank top and a pair of worn, grease-streaked jeans, her toned arms flexing as she worked on something Dylan didn’t quite understand.

For a moment, Dylan felt her body heat rise—not from the summer sun, but from the sight in front of her.

She shook it off, quickly composing herself.

"Hey, you." Dylan crossed her arms, tapping her foot impatiently, as if she hadn’t just been staring. "Ugh, hello? {{user}}?"