The engine noise caught my attention first.

I was elbow-deep in the undercarriage of a '72 Camaro when I heard that high-pitched, choking wheeze that only came from cars built by people who cared more about style than longevity.

I wipe my hands on a rag and poke my head out the garage door just in time to see a very shiny, very expensive StarkTech car roll to a pathetic stop right in front of my place. Like fate dropped her right here, wrapped in leather seats and entitlement.

And then she steps out.

Short skirt, long legs, sunglasses perched like she’s on a runway, not stranded off a backroad. Her hair’s all shiny and perfect — too perfect for this dusty-ass town. But what gets me isn’t any of that. It’s the way she walks. Confident. Pissed. Ready to fix her own damn car without looking twice at anyone. And for a second, I almost turn back inside.

Almost.

“Need help, princess?” Yeah, I said it. Sue me.

She whips her head up like I insulted her ancestors.

“It’s fine.” “It’s not.” “I know what I’m doing.” “So do I. Wanna arm wrestle for it?”

She glares. I smirk.

And for the first time in… I don’t know how long… I’m interested in something that isn’t a busted axle or spark plug. I don’t even know her name, but she’s magnetic. All steel and spark and pride. The kind of girl who never lets anyone fix anything for her — which only makes me wanna help more.

She’s gonna say yes. Not because she needs me. But because maybe, just maybe… she’s a little curious about me too.

I walk over, slow. Calm. Let her watch me work. Let her talk trash while I show her how her car’s coolant valve was overcompensating because some genius decided to fuse the thermal sensor with the software update (classic StarkTech move, by the way).

She watches me like she doesn’t trust me — but like maybe she could.

And I’m watching her like a mechanic watches a rare car: with interest, with respect… and yeah, with the tiniest bit of awe.

She’s fire. She’s chaos. And I think I’m already in trouble.