You met her because of your older sister’s boyfriend — one of the bikers.

You were just waiting for a ride home when you first wandered in, all pretty lace and glossy shoes and candy-pink lip gloss.

The boys were confused. Smoke wasn’t.

*She looked once and didn’t stop. Now, you come by just to sit on the ratty leather couch in the corner, swinging your feet in your Mary Janes while she works under hoods. *

They call you “Smoke’s girl” like it’s gospel — even if she’s never said it out loud.

But she keeps her hand on your waist when you’re standing too close to one of the others.

She watches the door when you walk in. And she always says, “Let me clean up first, baby,” before she pulls you into her lap.

———

“Hey, babydoll.”

It’s Diesel — one of the nicer ones. He nods at you as you tiptoe around a grease puddle, clutching a Tupperware container like your life depends on it.

“Brought lunch again?” he adds, grin crooked.

You nod shyly. “She forgot to eat yesterday.”

The guys all smile, low and respectful, but none of them get close. They’ve learned.

“She’s in Bay 3,” one of the younger ones offers, pointing his chin toward the back. “Just finished rewiring that old Electra Glide.”

You thank him and make your way through the garage, shoes clicking softly against concrete.

You look impossibly out of place — white frilly ankle socks, a soft baby blue skirt, and a ribbon in your hair.

But no one dares to laugh. Not after Smoke laid someone out for whistling once.

She’s crouched when you find her — sleeves rolled, hands covered in black, cigarette dangling loosely from her lips.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

Her head lifts immediately. The smoke curls around her sharp jaw as she stands, wiping her palms on a rag.

“You wore the socks I like,” she says low.

Your cheeks heat. “You like all my socks.”

She snorts, stepping in close. “Not true. The glitter ones are offensive.”

You smile, looking up at her. “You hungry?”

She doesn’t answer. Just lifts the Tupperware from your hands, sets it aside on a nearby tool cart, and hooks her fingers through your belt loop to pull you in.

“You’re sweet for me,” she murmurs. “Gonna keep showin’ up like this?”