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The heat hit her first.

Midday sun baked the asphalt outside, and it felt like the entire block exhaled straight into the open bay doors of Dunlap Motor Works. Hot air, hot metal, the sour tang of old coffee, the thick, almost sweet smell of engine oil and rubber. An impact wrench barked from somewhere deep in the garage, then chattered to a stop. A rock station played low on a battered radio, distorted guitar riffs crackling through its one working speaker, the other blown sometime around 2004.

Cate stepped in off the sidewalk and paused just inside the threshold, letting her eyes adjust to the light. Dust motes spun lazily in the stripes of sun cutting across the concrete floor. Dark smears of oil tracked a path from the bays to the back office. A box fan rattled uselessly in the corner, only managing to push the hot air around.

“Dad?” she called, her bright voice cheerfully out of place among the grease and growling machinery. “You alive in here, or did one of your carburetors finally come for you in your sleep?”

No answer.

She took a few more steps in, the heels of her sandals clicking against concrete that looked like it would stain anything dumb enough to touch it. Her sundress was the wrong choice for a place like this and she knew it: soft pink, thin straps, hem flirting with mid-thigh every time she moved. But Cate didn’t own “appropriate.” Not really. It clung where the heat made her skin damp, fabric darker at the small of her back and under her breasts. A strand of blonde hair stuck to the side of her neck until she tipped her head to shake it free.

She was already annoyed, already planning exactly how she’d guilt trip her dad for making her come all the way down here instead of answering his phone, when she heard it: the scrape of metal against metal, then a muffled curse from under one of the lifted cars.

The voice wasn’t one she recognized.

Cate turned toward the sound. The boots sticking out from beneath the lifted car caught her eye first: scuffed black work boots planted against the stained concrete, soles braced for leverage and leaving faint prints in the dust. Then the long legs in faded jeans that sat low on lean hips, denim pulling tight where one thigh flexed to push you farther beneath the car. You were stretched out on a battered red creeper, most of your body obscured beneath the chassis, but not enough. A ragged white tank top had ridden up over a strip of stomach slick with sweat, the thin fabric darkened where it clung to your ribs.

A socket wrench clicked rhythmically. The red creeper shifted with each small adjustment of your body, cracked vinyl giving a faint squeak against the concrete.

Cate’s mouth watered with such immediate, shameless interest that she almost laughed. The universe really did love her.

She took another step, the air almost warmer here, smelling of gasoline and something else under it: sweat and old cologne and the metallic breath of hot steel. “Hi,” she tried, but it came out too soft. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Excuse me?”

The socket wrench stopped clicking. For a second, nothing moved beneath the car. Then one arm stretched out from beneath the chassis, reaching blindly for the toolbox sitting beside the front tire. The motion pulled every lean muscle taut, bicep flexing as the socket wrench landed against metal with a clank. There was grease streaked across the back of your hand and stuck beneath your short nails, exactly the kind of grime Cate went to unreasonable lengths to keep off her own body. Looking at that hand now, she had the sudden, vivid thought that she wouldn’t mind it at all if it left fingerprints all over her.

“Yeah, hang on,” the unfamiliar voice called, roughened by the hollow undercarriage. One boot pressed into the concrete, and the battered creeper rolled forward. A head slid into view.

Cate almost forgot to pretend she was here for anything but the woman under that car.

Short curls escaped from under a backwards cap, damp enough to cling to your forehead and temples. Your nose had a slight bump, like it had been broken once and reset by someone with good intentions and bad bedside manner. A thin scar split one eyebrow. There was grease on your cheekbone, a thumbprint like war paint. Your eyes were shockingly sharp even as they squinted against the light.

A toothpick shifted from one corner of your mouth to the other as you looked Cate up and down. Not subtle. Not even trying to be.

“Can I help you with something?” you asked, and the low rasp of your voice did something unhelpful to Cate’s knees.

Cate smiled like she wasn’t already committing you to memory in indecent detail, all of it material she would absolutely be replaying later, alone in bed, with far less need to pretend she was being polite. She almost said she was looking for her dad. The words made it as far as the back of her teeth before instinct stopped them. Boss’s daughter was information best saved until after this beautiful stranger had decided she wanted her. “Looking for Eric,” she said instead, smooth as silk. “Old, grouchy, swears the check engine light is a government conspiracy?”

You snorted. “Dunlap? Parts run. Should be back anytime.” You wiped your forearm across your brow, leaving another streak of grease over tanned skin, then let your gaze travel over Cate again, slower this time. From the thin straps of her dress to the bare length of her thighs, lingering at the hem before lifting back to her face. By then, your interest had become considerably less subtle. “You his…” The toothpick shifted lazily to the other corner of your mouth, “…customer?”

Cate had to bite back a laugh. If Eric saw the way you were looking at her, he’d have a coronary before he hit the floor.

“Not exactly,” she said. She hooked her thumb under the strap of her purse, tugging it higher up her shoulder, letting the movement tighten the line of her dress across her chest.

The non-answer settled easily between you two, sweetened by the way your gaze dipped again. Cate saw no reason to ruin a perfectly good first impression with unnecessary information.

“Mm.” Your gaze returned to Cate’s face. Up close, you were even worse. There was something unnervingly focused in the way you looked at Cate, as though she were a beautiful problem laid open in front of you, one you already knew you’d prefer solving with your hands.

“Boss didn’t tell me we were expecting company.” You rolled the rest of the way out on the creeper, catching the edge of the lift with one hand before you could coast too far. When you sat up, your tank rode higher over your stomach, revealing the waistband of your boxers above your jeans and the sharp, slick line of your hip. “Haven’t seen you before.”

Cate let her eyes linger there, not bothering to hide it. “Maybe you weren’t looking closely enough.”

A slow grin pulled at your mouth, crooked and a little dangerous. “Trust me, sweetheart. I’d remember a girl like you.”

Cate felt the smile break across her face before she could stop it. Well. Pretty and quick on your feet. That was almost unfair.

You planted your hands on your knees and pushed yourself to your feet in one fluid motion, leaving Cate to revise her opinion of the situation. Up close, you were taller than Cate by a few inches, broad across the shoulders, your tank clinging damply to the muscles in your chest. The strip of skin above your jeans disappeared again as the fabric settled, but the waistband of your boxers still showed when you reached back to dust off your palms. A chain gleamed at your throat before vanishing beneath the sweat-darkened collar.

You gave her your name. A name Cate could already imagine saying in circumstances that had nothing to do with introductions.

She offered her hand before that thought could become visible on her face. “Cate.”

You looked at it like you were deciding whether or not to be good. Then you wiped your own hand on a rag tucked into your back pocket and took Cate’s.

Your palm was rough and hot, fingers long, grease still caught in the creases. Cate felt the calluses drag against her softer skin, felt the firm, confident squeeze and the way it lingered a second too long. Heat crawled up her arm and settled low in her belly.

“Nice to meet you, Cate-not-exactly-a-customer,” you said. You released her hand and stepped back, reaching for the rag again. “Car broke down or what?”

“Mm, no. My car’s fine.” She let her gaze drift over your face, down the column of your throat where a bead of sweat slid under the fabric of her tank. “Sadly.”

You barked a laugh. “You say that like you wish you had an excuse.”

Cate tipped one shoulder, the movement exaggerated just enough. “Who says I don’t?”

The radio crackled quietly behind you, some old guitar riff rising and falling. A cicada buzzed somewhere outside. For a moment, the garage felt very small, like the heat and the smell and the noise had all rushed to the edges and left only the two of you in the center.

Your eyes sharpened, something alert slipping in under the lazy grin. “You kill time in mechanic shops often, or is this, like, a new hobby?”

“Depends on the mechanic.” Cate let her lips part, just a little. “You’re the first one I’ve seen who makes a tank top and sweat look like a sex crime.”

It was almost worth the risk just to see the way your expression twisted. For a second, you looked startled, like you’d expected polite small talk, not a girl in a short sundress walking into your bay saying that you looked like a felony.

Your tongue pressed briefly against the inside of your cheek, as if you needed half a second to decide whether laughing or flirting back would get you in more trouble. Then the surprise melted into pleasure, your grin dragging at one corner of your mouth like you were trying not to enjoy yourself too obviously. “You always talk like that, or am I getting the deluxe package?”

Cate lifted a shoulder, as if any part of this conversation had left her remotely unaffected. “I like to make a memorable first impression.” 

Your gaze dropped, slow, from Cate’s mouth down her throat, over the line of her collarbones and the rise of her chest. Cate felt each inch of that look like a touch. Her skin prickled, goosebumps rising even in the oppressive heat.

“Well,” you said quietly. “You’re doing a hell of a job.”

Somewhere near the office, a phone rang and rang, then cut off. No footsteps followed. No familiar shuffle of Eric’s boots. The world didn’t intrude.

Cate let the silence stretch just long enough to feel intentional. “So, how long have you been working here?”

You glanced toward the office first, as if remembering this was still a place with walls, cameras, consequences. Then you hooked your thumbs into the front pockets of your jeans, shoulders settling into something that tried very hard to look casual. “Couple weeks.” Your voice stayed casual, but something in your jaw tightened around the answer. “Dunlap’s taking a chance on me.” You looked at Cate for a moment, visibly measuring how much to say. “Most people don’t love hiring ex-cons, no matter how good you are with an engine.”

Cate’s brows rose. If anything, that made everything worse in the best possible way. “Ex-con,” she echoed. “What’d you do?”

Your mouth quirked. “You ask everybody you meet to list their felonies, or am I special?”

“You’re special,” Cate said without missing a beat.

The silence that followed had weight. Your eyes darkened, a flush rising high on your cheeks and curling into the shell of your ears. You looked away, picked up a wrench from the toolbox, and turned it once in your hand like you’d suddenly found something fascinating about the chrome.

“Nothing glamorous,” you said. “Wrong place, wrong time, wrong friends. Got caught holding more than I should’ve, then got caught again before I was smart enough to stop. Court decided I needed a timeout. I decided I liked engines better than cell blocks.”

The casual shrug didn’t quite hide the faint tightness in your jaw. Cate filed it away, not to weaponize, just to know. You didn’t read as ashamed, exactly. More like you were determined not to let anyone else’s opinion of it affect the new life you were trying to build.

Cate stepped closer, enough that she could smell the salt on your skin, the faint edge of cigarettes in your hair. “Well. Sounds like you’re reformed now.”

You huffed out a laugh. “That what it sounds like?”

“To me.” Cate let her nails graze the edge of the workbench beside you, resisting the urge to just put her hand on your bicep and see what happened. “But then, I have a soft spot for bad decisions.”

“Yeah?” You angled toward her without quite closing the distance. “You make a lot of those?”

Cate thought about the guy she’d let talk her into the backseat of his car last weekend, the one whose name she barely remembered. Thought about the way her parents had looked at her when she came home smelling like perfume and beer and someone else’s cologne. Thought about how nothing ever quieted the restless ache under her sternum for more than an hour.

“You have no idea,” she said, as if she’d be happy to ruin the afternoon for both of you while proving it.

Your eyes flicked to the bay door, then back. There was no one else around. A radio jingle warbled from the front office, then clicked off. The fan clacked and clattered in the corner.

“So what’s your plan?” You asked. Your voice had gone a little lower, humor still there but thinned by interest. “Stand around making my day harder until Dunlap gets back?”

She could see it on your face: the hesitation, the little war between wanting to lean into this and remembering there were rules about flirting with girls who showed up at your workplace. Cate could have made it easy. She could have said, I’m his daughter, relax. She could have left.

Instead, she tilted her head, letting her smile return in a softer, more dangerous shape. “He called me,” she lied, though technically he had, earlier, to ask if she remembered where he left his reading glasses. “Said he needed me to stop by…guess I’m early.”

“How early?”

Cate checked her phone, more for effect than information. “Depends. How long before I become a distraction?”

Your laugh came out a little strangled. “That ship sailed the second you walked in wearing that dress.”

Cate’s bones turned to syrup. “So…” She took another half-step into your space, close enough now that if either of you breathed too deep, you’d touch. She tilted your chin up. The backwards cap kept your damp curls shoved back from your face, practical and careless, and Cate wanted to tug it off just to see what else you might let her mess up. “You gonna kick me out, or are you gonna let me watch you work?”

The words came out darker than she planned, threaded with real want. Cate almost winced at herself. Subtlety had never been her strong suit.

Your nostrils flared. Your gaze dropped again, this time straight to Cate’s mouth, then jerked up as if you’d been caught. “Kinda hard to focus with someone like you staring me down.”

“That a no?”

Your throat worked around a swallow. You looked toward the parking lot again. Still empty. The street outside hummed with distant traffic, nothing slowing. No familiar blue pickup turning into the drive.

Finally, you blew out a breath. “Fine,” you said, voice rough. “You wanna watch, you can watch. You get bored, you…whatever. Wander. Try not to trip over anything. I’d hate to have to perform emergency first aid when I’m already this filthy.”

Cate’s eyes slid down your torso, slow and blatant. “I wouldn’t.”

You muttered something that sounded like Jesus Christ under your breath and dropped back onto the creeper. In a practiced motion, you slid under the car again, one boot pushing off the ground.

Cate perched on the edge of a nearby tool cart, crossing her legs carefully. The hem of her sundress rode up, exposing more of her thighs. She didn’t adjust it.

From her new vantage point, she could see the taut line of your arm when you reached up, the flex and release of muscle as you turned the ratchet. Sweat ran down the inside of your bicep, disappearing into the crook of your elbow. The tank clung to your ribs every time you exhaled. Cate watched, shameless, while the rhythm of the work settled into something hypnotic.

“You stare like you’re cataloguing me,” your voice drifted out, muffled by metal. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Flattered,” Cate said. “Definitely flattered.”

Another laugh, softer this time. “You always this intense?”

Cate considered. “Yes,” she said, as a smile crept onto her face, slow enough to be dangerous. “But you’re getting a slightly upgraded experience.”

“Again with the deluxe package,” you muttered, but there was a smile in it.

The wrench slipped with a sharp metallic clank, and your knuckles glanced off something unforgiving beneath the engine. You cursed, jerking your hand back hard enough to make the creeper rock. When your arm slid into view, two knuckles were scraped raw, blood bright against the grease.

“Shit.” You shook your hand, more annoyed than hurt.

“Are you okay?” Cate slid off the cart before she even thought about it. She stepped closer until you rolled fully out and sat up again, hand cradled against your chest.

“It’s nothing,” you said reflexively.

Cate reached for your injured hand. “Let me see.”

You hesitated, then let her. Cate curled her fingers around your wrist and drew the injured hand closer, angling it toward the light. The scrape wasn’t deep, but it was definitely bloody, a raw red line split across two knuckles. Grease darkened the creases of your fingers, caught beneath your nails, and Cate had the very inconvenient thought that even hurt, even filthy, your hands were attractive.

Cate’s thumb brushed just beside it. “You need a bandage.”

“It’s fine,” you said, but your voice had dropped. You were looking at where Cate’s slender fingers circled your wrist, at the way your skin looked together: soft and manicured and pale against rough and stained and tan. “I’ve had worse.”

“Humor me.”

There was a first aid kit pinned to the wall near the office, a dirty white metal box with a red cross sticker peeling at one corner. Cate had seen it a thousand times growing up. She didn’t let go of your wrist as she tugged you to your feet, leading rather than asking.

She felt the tendons move under her fingers, the flex of muscle in your forearm. It was ridiculously easy to imagine those same hands on her, big and sure and a little careless. Her pulse skittered.

You went with her, resisting just enough to make it clear you knew better and not nearly enough to stop.

At the kit, Cate finally let go, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. She popped the latch and rifled through the contents, coming up with an antiseptic wipe and a bandage.

“Here,” she said, turning back. “Hold still.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you said lightly, but your eyes weren’t joking. Not completely.

Cate bit the inside of her cheek, feeling something hot curl low. Of all the things she wanted from you, obedience wasn’t in the top five, but having it didn’t exactly hurt.

She unwrapped the antiseptic and took your hand again. Your fingers dwarfed Cate’s, knuckles nicked with old scars, veins rising under the skin. Cate dabbed carefully, watching your face.

“This might sting.”

Your jaw tensed, but you didn’t pull away. The wipe smelled like a hospital, sharp and sterile, quickly cutting through the scent of heat and oil. Cate’s thumb stroked unconsciously along the side of your hand, a soothing little rhythm she couldn’t seem to stop.

“You’re very good at this,” you said, gaze locked on Cate’s mouth.

“I have a lot of experience with damage control,” Cate said quietly.

The air between you shifted, something unspoken but heavy slotting into place. Cate could feel the choice forming there: make a joke, diffuse the moment, or lean into the gravity of it.

She chose neither. She leaned into the part of her that wanted to see how far she could push before something snapped.

She finished cleaning the wound, dropped the wipe in a nearby trash can, and peeled the backing off the bandaid. Her fingers were clumsy for once, the paper catching on her nails. When she pressed the bandage over your knuckles, she smoothed it down with two fingertips, slow. Her other hand slid unconsciously higher on your forearm, nearly to the elbow.

“There,” she said, voice softer than she meant it to be. “All better.”

Your throat bobbed. “You always this…hands-on?”

Cate smiled, quick and bright. “You complaining?”

Your teeth caught the toothpick, chewing down hard enough that Cate heard the tiny crack. “Not even a little.”

You stood like that for a heartbeat too long, Cate’s hand on your arm, your newly bandaged hand hovering close to Cate’s waist, like gravity wanted it there and only willpower kept it from settling.

An engine roared by outside, too loud as it accelerated past the shop. Cate flinched, the sound punching through the bubble you’d built together. She stepped back a fraction, dropping your hand. The loss of contact felt abrupt.

“So,” she said, forcing casual into her tone. “You gonna show me you actually know what you’re doing under there? Or are you just using the tools as props to impress me?”

You snorted. “Sweetheart, if I was trying to impress you, your panties would be off already.”

The words hit Cate like a physical touch. Her breath caught, pupils dilating. A flush rose under her skin, her thighs pressing together a little too automatically.

“Big talk,” she managed, trying for a smirk and mostly succeeding. “Especially for someone who hasn’t even bought me a drink first.”

You leaned in, close enough that Cate could feel the heat radiating off you. “I’ve got a vending machine in the break room,” you murmured. “That count?”

Cate laughed, the sound coming out a little breathless. “Depends. Are we talking name-brand soda or off-brand citrus surprise?”

“The good stuff.” Your eyes caught on the slight sway of Cate’s dress, then dragged themselves back up like it took effort. “I’m not a monster.”

“Tempting.”

“It could be.” Your hand twitched like you had to stop yourself from reaching out. “Pretty sure the boss wouldn’t love it if I fucked someone in the bay, though. Even if it’d be worth the write-up.”

Cate’s heart stumbled. The boss. Her dad. Reality slid back in, unwelcome but undeniable.

For one inconvenient second, the secret sat between you waiting to be noticed. You had no idea you’d just put your hand right on the tripwire. Cate could still end it cleanly: laugh, say something wry, drop the reveal, watch you scramble back into professionalism. It would be safer. Smarter. The right thing to do, probably.

Instead, she stepped closer, letting her gaze drop to your mouth, then lifted it again slowly. Self-preservation had never been her strongest skill.

“Who says he has to find out?” she asked, eyes bright and reckless.

Your inhale was sharp, your body going still in a way that wasn’t denial, just…tension. Your eyes searched Cate’s face, looking for something: hesitation, uncertainty, a no that hadn’t been said out loud.

“Cate,” you said finally, your voice lower than before, rough around the edges. “You should tell me if you’re fucking around or not. ‘Cause I just got this job. And I’m not great at being the bigger person when someone looks at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

Cate’s fingers curled in the fabric of her own skirt, knuckles pressing white against the soft pink. She knew that look. Knew what it meant. Had seen it in mirrors after nights she didn’t remember all the way through.

She swallowed once, then again, and made herself say the truth. “I’m not fucking around.”

Your jaw worked, muscle ticking. “You sure you want to do this here?”

Cate let her gaze dart to the open bay doors, the empty lot beyond, the narrow slice of street visible between the frame and the hedge. Someone could pull in at any minute. Her father could walk through that side door, bag of fast food in hand, eyes lighting up at the sight of his little girl and the pride in his voice when he introduced her to the new hire he’d taken a chance on.

Her pulse thudded, loud in her ears.

“I’m very good with time constraints,” she said. “Adds to the fun.”

The sound that came out of you wasn’t quite a laugh. More like a growl strangled halfway. “Christ.”

“Problem?” Cate fixed her eyes on your mouth, the curve of it, the way the toothpick rested at the corner. She wanted to feel those lips against her own, wanted to taste your tongue.

You dragged your uninjured hand over your face, thumb and forefinger pinching briefly at the bridge of your nose, like you were trying to physically press some sense back into yourself. “Whole bunch of them,” you muttered. But you didn’t step away. 

Instead, you reached past Cate to flick the switch on the bay door beside you. The massive metal frame began to rattle down, shading the space from the harshness of the noon sun, turning the garage into something darker, more private. The slice of street narrowed, then disappeared entirely behind corrugated metal.

The fan kept up its useless whir. The radio crackled, a DJ laughing at his own joke. Somewhere in the back, a drip hit the rim of a bucket in a steady, hollow plink.

You looked back at Cate. “Last chance to change your mind,” you said. “If I start something with you, I’m not half-assing it. And I’m not getting caught with my pants down because somebody wanders in needing an oil change.”

Cate’s breath came a little faster, chest rising and falling. “Who says I want you to half-ass anything?”

The corner of your mouth kicked up. Then, finally, you closed the distance.

Your hands landed on Cate’s hips, big and warm, fingertips denting the soft flesh just above the waistband of her panties. Cate sucked in a breath as you walked her backward, slow but deliberate, toward the shadowed space between the nearest tool chest and the concrete pillar. The corner of Cate’s bag knocked against a metal shelf, sending a socket clattering to the floor.

The sound jolted through her. She startled, then laughed, nervous and bright. Your fingers tightened.

“You okay?” you asked quietly, voice right against her lips now, the words warm with the ghost of your breath.

Cate nodded. “Yeah. I’m—yeah.”

You searched her face again, that same careful checking. “Say it,” you murmured.

Cate’s heart tripped. The insistence should have annoyed her, but it didn’t. It grounded her instead, pulled her out of the rush of risk and back into her body.

“I want this,” she said. Her voice came out rougher than she expected. “I want you.”

Something in your posture relaxed and sharpened at the same time. “Good,” you said simply.

Then you kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was hot and needy from the first second, like you’d been holding yourself back from the moment Cate walked in and the dam had finally cracked. Your mouth fit over Cate’s, plush and insistent, toothpick abandoned somewhere on the floor between you. Your hands dragged Cate’s hips forward, slotting your bodies together.

Cate gasped into your mouth, fingers flying to your shoulders for balance. Her nails bit into the warm, solid muscle there. The smell of you was everywhere now: engine oil and salt and the faintest hint of cheap peppermint gum. You licked into her mouth like you owned it, tongue sliding against Cate’s with shocking confidence.

Heat shot straight down between Cate’s legs. She tilted her head, chasing the kiss, letting herself get pinned between your body and the pillar. The concrete was hot through her dress, rough against her shoulder blades. Your thigh shoved between Cate’s, denim scraping the tender inside of her leg as you shifted, angling.

Cate moaned, the sound helpless. The vibration of it made you groan back into her mouth, a low, guttural noise.

“Fuck,” you murmured against her lips between kisses. “You taste like trouble.”

Cate laughed shakily. “You gonna arrest me?”

“Pretty sure I’m violating my parole just looking at you,” you said. Your hand slid from Cate’s hip down the curve of her thigh, fingers dipping under the hem of her sundress. Her skin felt like fire where you touched, callouses dragging over the smooth, sensitive flesh.

Cate sucked in a sharp breath as your fingers skimmed the edge of her panties. “Fuck,” she whispered.

You stilled. “Too much?”

Cate shook her head hard. “No. God, no.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m usually the one who takes control,” Cate said before she could think better of it. The words left her feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothing.

You hummed, fingers tracing idle little circles at the hollow of Cate’s hip, just under the elastic. “You can,” you said. “If you want to. You want to tell me what to do, I’ll follow your lead.”

The offer landed like a weight in her chest, heavy and tempting. She could. She could take charge, push you to your knees, ride your face until her legs gave out. The image flashed hot and bright behind her eyes, almost enough to make her dizzy.

But right now, pressed against the pillar with your thigh between hers and your hand so close to where she ached, Cate didn’t want control. She wanted to be handled.

“Maybe next time,” she murmured, fingers curling in the hem of your tank and tugging you closer. “For now, I just…don’t stop.”

Your eyes darkened, though your grin twitched at the edge. “Next time?” You repeated. “Look at you, planning ahead.”

“I’m optimistic.”

“You’re trouble.” Your hand slid higher on her thigh. “But yeah. Okay. Next time.”

Your fingers slid fully under Cate’s panties, the pads of them dragging against hot, slick skin. Cate’s head thumped back against the concrete, the slight pain drowned immediately by the rush of sensation. You swore quietly under your breath.

“Already wet for me?” you said, a little incredulous, a lot pleased.

“The garage is very…stimulating,” Cate managed.

You huffed a laugh, then cut it off with another kiss. Your fingers found Cate’s clit with a certainty that made Cate suspect this was hardly the first time you’d had someone pinned up against something solid. You circled it slowly at first, testing, learning the rhythm that made Cate’s knees wobble and her breath stutter.

Cate clutched at your shoulders, at the back of your neck, fingers sliding into the curls along your nape where they escaped the cap. The hair there was damp and soft, the skin beneath burning. She rocked down against your hand, chasing pressure.

“Yeah,” you murmured against her jaw, lips trailing along the line of it, the hollow beneath her ear. “That’s it. Use me.”

The words sent a fresh lick of heat through her. Cate tilted her head, giving you better access. Teeth grazed her throat, not quite biting, just close enough to make her gasp.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Cate whispered, half-laughing, half-moan.

“Lot worse ways to go than getting fingered senseless in a garage,” you said, fingers dipping lower, slipping through slick and back up again.

Cate choked on a sound that might have been a curse. Her thighs were shaking now, muscles working to hold her up as your hand worked. She could feel the seam of your jeans against the inside of her leg, the hard line of your thigh pressing up against her. Every movement scrambled her thoughts further.

“Tell me what you like,” you murmured. “Fast, slow, deep…you want me inside you or you wanna ride my hand?”

The directness of it made Cate’s brain spark. She’d had guys fumble around, too shy to say what they were doing out loud, too caught up in their own stupid pride to ask her what worked for her. You were different. Present in a way that made Cate feel seen, not just touched.

“Inside,” she heard herself say. “Please.”

Your breath hitched. “Yeah? You want my fingers in you, princess?”

The pet name, the gravel in your voice when you said it, nearly undid Cate. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, please.”

You kissed her again, slower this time, a little reverent around the edges. One arm braced beside Cate’s head, palm flat against the pillar. The other slipped lower, two fingers circling her entrance once before pressing in.

Cate cried out softly, the sound muffled against your mouth. Her body clenched around the intrusion, welcoming the stretch. Your fingers were thick and sure, callouses scratching pleasantly at her inner walls as you eased them in to the knuckle.

“Fuck,” you breathed. “You’re tight.”

“Don’t—stop talking like that,” Cate gasped.

“Like what,” you said, starting to move your hand, slow, steady thrusts that had Cate’s breath coming in short little bursts. “You mean honest?”

Cate’s laugh broke apart halfway. Her head thunked back against the pillar again, the faint throb grounding her in her body. Her nipples were hard, peaked against the thin dress, the fabric brushing them every time her chest moved.

Your name escaped her in a strangled voice.

“Yeah, baby.” Your thumb found her clit again, rubbing small, precise circles in time with the slide of your fingers. “You feel so good. Taking me so well. Gonna make a mess on my hand, huh?”

Cate’s world narrowed to the heat between her legs, the rough drag of your skin against hers, the way your wrist flexed, the damp patch forming on her own dress where your bodies pressed together. She could feel your chest rising and falling against her, could hear the change in your breathing, the little hitch every time Cate clenched around your fingers.

“You…you’re good at this,” Cate whispered, half laughing as her thighs trembled.

“I like making pretty girls fall apart,” you said, matter-of-fact and filthy. “You gonna let me see your face when you cum? Or you gonna hide it from me?”

Cate’s hand flew up, fingers digging into the back of your neck, holding you close. “You first,” she said, words slurred by pleasure. “You look at me when I do.”

Your eyes locked on hers, color gone almost black. “Deal.”

The pressure built fast, a coil tightening low in Cate’s belly, heat licking up her spine. Her hips had a mind of their own now, grinding down against your hand, chasing the friction on her clit. The world blurred at the edges, all concrete and metal and the faint echo of music drowning under the staccato beat of her own heartbeat.

She felt it crest, that sharp, dizzy moment right before the fall, and panic flirted with the edges of it. The bay door was down. The office door was closed. But someone could still come in. Her father could still pull that cord, lift the door, see her pinned and panting and already too far gone to pretend otherwise.

The thrill of that danger tipped her over the edge.

Her orgasm hit like a punch, all the air leaving her lungs in a silent gasp before a broken moan tore free. Her fingers clenched in your hair, dragging your mouth down to devour a kiss that probably bruised you both. Her thighs clamped around your hand, trapping it, holding you exactly there as she rode the waves of it, each pulse sending another spike of pleasure through her.

You groaned against her mouth, working your fingers through it, slowing only when the intensity made Cate flinch and whine. You eased off, thumb shifting to gentler strokes, fingers still buried deep, a constant reminder of how completely you owned Cate’s body in that moment.

“Good girl,” you whispered, breath hot on Cate’s lips. “That’s it. Ride it out for me.”

Cate shuddered, the praise sparking another aftershock. “Fuck,” she panted. “Fuck, fuck…”

“Language,” you teased, voice hoarse. “What would your dad think?”

Cate’s whole body went rigid.

It was ridiculous, the way the mention of him hit her harder than the orgasm had. Reality crashed back in with all the grace of a falling anvil. Her lungs seized, her fingers tightening involuntarily in your hair.

Your eyes widened immediately. “Hey. Hey, relax. I didn’t mean…” You started to pull your hand back.

For one sharp second, Cate almost let you. Then she forced herself back into her body: your hand, your breath, the concrete warm against her back, the reckless pulse still beating between you.

Cate grabbed your wrist. “Don’t you dare stop.”

You froze. Then, slowly, that dangerous little smile crept back. “Yes, ma’am.”

You eased your fingers out carefully, coated in slick. Cate watched, dazed, as you brought them to your mouth and licked them clean. The sight sent another weak tremor through her.

“You taste like trouble, too,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Cate’s brain felt half-melted. Her legs were jelly, her back damp where it pressed against the pillar. Her sundress was askew, one strap fallen down her arm, her lipstick a mess. She’d never been so thoroughly wrecked in such a short amount of time, and she hadn’t even touched you yet.

She blinked, forcing herself to focus on you. On the dark stain of arousal seeping through the front of your jeans, the outline beneath the denim, the tension in your jaw like sheer willpower alone was holding you together. You looked wrecked and furious about it, which only made Cate want even worse things.

“You’re just going to leave yourself like that?” Cate asked, voice rough.

You huffed a laugh, glancing down at the hard line straining against your jeans. “Trying to be a gentleman.”

Cate arched a brow, still breathing too hard to make the look as clean as she wanted. “You just got me off at work instead of fixing that car.”

“Yeah,” you said. “And kept my other hand to myself. I’m basically a saint.”

Cate swallowed, her eyes dropping to the front of your jeans before she could stop them. The knowledge sat heavy and electric in her stomach, less a surprise than an invitation her body had already answered. She wanted to see you. Wanted to know the weight and heat of you in her hand, on her tongue, the shape of you without denim and restraint in the way.

“You said you don’t half-ass things,” Cate murmured. She slid her hand down your abdomen, fingers toying with the hem of your tank top. “What, you only go all the way for girls with extended warranties?”

You laughed, pleasure cutting through the restraint you’d been trying so hard to keep. “You’re a menace.”

“So I’ve been told.”

You looked at her for a long moment, the humor in your eyes tangled up with something more hesitant. “We don’t have a lot of time,” you said quietly.

“That’s never stopped me,” Cate said. “You gonna let me take care of you or are you really gonna keep me wondering what you’ve got going on under there?”

Your breath stuttered. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” you said, echoing Cate’s earlier words.

“Like you said,” Cate murmured, fingers tracing the line of your waistband. “There are worse ways to go.”

Your resolve snapped with visible force. Your hand caught Cate’s wrist, pressing it firmer against the front of your jeans. The heat there made Cate’s mouth flood. There was no mistaking the hardness beneath the denim, thick and heavy, pushing against the zipper.

“Is this what you want?” You asked, voice gone low and harsh.

“Yeah,” Cate whispered, eyes wide. “Yeah, daddy.”

The word slipped out unbidden, instinctive in the fuzzy, overheated state she was in. The second it left her mouth, she stiffened, half in anticipation, half in fear of how it would land.

Your reaction was visceral. Your pupils blew so wide they nearly swallowed the color entirely. Your grip on Cate’s wrist tightened enough to border on painful.

“Fuck,” you breathed. “Say that again.”

Cate’s pulse roared in her ears. “Make me.”

Your breath hissed between your teeth. “You really don’t like making things easy, do you?”

“Nope,” Cate said, grin turning wicked at the edges. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You groaned, shifting your hips forward. Then you pressed in hard enough to flatten Cate more fully against the pillar, pinning her there with the full, hot weight of your body, one hand braced beside her head, the other catching Cate’s wrist and guiding it down to the front of your jeans. “Get your hand in my pants,” you ordered, voice rough. “You wanna see me lose it? You’re gonna help.”

Cate’s fingers fumbled at your fly, clumsy with afterglow and adrenaline. You cursed softly, batting her hand away long enough to pop open the button yourself and drag the zipper down. The fabric parted, revealing the band of your boxers and the suggestion of what lay beneath.

You guided Cate’s hand in, under the waistband, against bare, hot skin. Cate gasped as her fingers brushed the base of your cock, the sudden reality of it making her lightheaded.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “You’re…big.”

“Flattery’ll get you everywhere,” you muttered through gritted teeth. Your own hand stayed on Cate’s wrist, controlling the pace, guiding her. “Wrap your fingers around me.”

Cate did, curling her hand as best she could. She barely got her fingers all the way around, the thickness strained her grip. Your hips jerked forward at the first squeeze, a broken sound ripping from you.

“Jesus,” you rasped. “You’re killing me.”

“Feels like you could kill me with this thing,” Cate whispered, a shaky laugh slipping free.

“Not my style,” you said, voice strangled. “I like my girls breathing. Say it again.”

Cate swallowed, throat dry. “What?”

“You know what.”

Cate squeezed harder, thumb dragging over the head where it leaked precum, smearing slick over the sensitive skin. Your knees almost buckled.

“Fuck, baby,” you groaned. “Say it.”

Cate leaned up, lips brushing the slick line of your throat, her tongue catching on the tendon there. Her hand kept moving, stroking slowly, savoring the way your cock pulsed in her grip, the way every little twist of her wrist got a reaction.

“Daddy,” she whispered into your skin. “You look so good like this.”

Your entire body shuddered. A curse fell out of you, filthy but heartfelt. Your hips bucked into Cate’s hand, rhythm losing its steadiness.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me cum so fucking fast.”

“Good,” Cate said, emboldened. “I want you to. I want to feel you lose it for me.”

“Shit,” you choked. Your forehead dropped to Cate’s shoulder, breath hot and ragged against her neck. Your hands dug into Cate’s hips hard enough to bruise, anchoring yourself as Cate stroked you, faster now, firmer, finding the cadence that made you whine deep in your chest.

Cate’s own arousal flared back to life, a slow burn under the fading aftershocks. The weight of you in her hand, the way your muscles jumped under your skin, the little helpless sounds you couldn’t swallow back. It all fed something greedy in Cate. It was more than satisfaction. It was the pleasure of discovering she could make you come apart, and the immediate, desperate need to do it again.

“You look so good,” she murmured, lips against your ear. “Getting off in my hand in this filthy little garage. Bet you’ve thought about this, huh? Fucker like you, you must jerk off in here all the time.”

You groaned loudly, half-laughing, half-mortified. “You’re gonna be the end of me, I swear to God.”

“You keep saying that,” Cate taunted. “But you’re still standing.”

“Not for long,” you gritted out. “Fuck. Faster, baby. Just like that.”

Cate obeyed, twisting her wrist, pumping her hand faster. Her palm was slick now, sliding easily. Your hips lost their rhythm entirely, stuttering into her grasp. Your breath came in harsh, broken pants, each one puffing hot against Cate’s neck.

“Where do you want it,” you managed, voice strangled. “Tell me where.”

The question knifed through her. Cate’s body answered before her brain did. “On me,” she breathed. “On my dress. Make a mess.”

You swore with feeling. “You’re fucked up,” you rasped, admiration heavy in your voice.

“Takes one to know one.”

Your whole body went taut, every muscle locking for a split second. Cate felt the tremor before she saw it, the way your cock jerked in her hand, the flood of heat that followed. You came with a strangled groan, biting down on Cate’s shoulder hard enough to make her hiss.

Hot streaks spilled over Cate’s fingers first, slicking her knuckles, then caught on the open waistband of your boxers as your hips stuttered forward. Cate’s hand shifted instinctively, sliding up with the motion, and you jerked once more with a broken groan. The last of it spurted higher, landing on the front of her dress, warm and wet as it soaked into the pretty fabric like evidence.

Cate kept stroking you through it, gentling the motion as you trembled, breath sawing in and out. One of your hands left her hip to slam against the pillar again, steadying yourself.

“Fuck,” you panted. “Fuck, fuck…”

“Language,” Cate whispered back, smug and soft.

You laughed weakly into her skin, the sound breathless and wrecked. “You’re evil,” you exhaled, voice roughened into something fond.

The front of your boxers were a disaster, soaked dark where they showed above your open jeans. Cate’s sundress wasn’t much better. The stain had already begun to seep into the pretty fabric, spreading at the edges in a warm, damning bloom.

“Worth it?” Cate asked, holding up her hand for inspection.

You groaned, tipping your head back as if appealing to whatever god watched over terrible decisions. When your eyes opened again, they fixed on Cate’s messy hand, and you swallowed hard. “Don’t show me that unless you’re planning on letting me lick it off,” you said, voice rough. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

Cate’s breath hitched, the image doing unholy things to her.

Before she could decide if she was brave enough to call that bluff, the distinct rumble of an engine cut through the haze like a warning.

Both your heads snapped up.

Cate heard it first in her bones, that particular uneven idle she’d grown up to, the rattle of her dad’s ancient pickup dragging itself off the street and into the lot, and damn near levitated. Gravel crunched under tires. A horn beeped twice in lazy greeting, as familiar as a knock on her bedroom door.

The sound reached you a beat later. Your whole body went still, desire wiped clean off your face by the kind of dread that came with rent, parole officers, and second chances held together with duct tape. Somewhere behind your eyes, Cate could see the realization land: truck, boots, boss.

“Shit,” you whispered.

Cate slapped a hand over her own mouth, as if she could quiet the guilty flush in her cheeks that way. Her other hand, the one still slick with your cum, hovered awkwardly in the air.

The truck engine cut off outside. A door creaked. Slammed. Heavy boots hit concrete.

For one suspended, stupid heartbeat you just stared at each other, both frozen in the wreckage of what you’d just done. Then panic hit you both in the same second.

“We cannot get caught like this,” Cate hissed, wild-eyed and breathing hard.

Your brain finally caught up. Eric Dunlap. The guy who’d given you the job and, by extension, your last shot at not screwing up your entire life. Your face went pale beneath the grease. “Fuck me.”

“You just had your chance,” Cate snapped, half-hysterical.

You had thirty seconds. Maybe.

You moved first. You grabbed the hem of your boxers and jeans, yanking everything up in one harsh drag. The hiss you let out when fabric smeared over oversensitive skin was almost a whimper. Your fingers fumbled with the button, slick and shaking.

Cate’s brain sprinted to exactly one conclusion: hide the evidence.

Cate looked down at herself and nearly laughed. The front of her sundress was ruined, a wet patch blooming dark over the fabric. Her thighs were sticky. Her hand looked like she’d just dipped it in something indecent. Her thighs still trembled. There was no universe where she could walk across the garage like this and have her father chalk it up to a heatwave.

“Rag,” she hissed. “Where’s a rag—”

You jerked your head at the bench. “Red one, left side.”

Cate lunged, nearly tripping over a rolling stool. She grabbed the rag and focused on her hand first, wiping furiously. It only half-worked. The fabric spread more than it erased, leaving her palm still damp, now perfumed with engine grease over the faint musk of sex.

“Fuck,” she muttered.

You made a strangled sound that might have been agreement, might have been panic, and finally managed to shove yourself back into your jeans. The button fought you for one humiliating second before it snapped into place. Your zipper came next, dragged up too fast, teeth catching once before you forced it.

Then your eyes dropped to Cate’s hand.

“Give me that,” you rasped.

Cate barely had time to loosen her grip before you took the rag from her and swiped it across the front of your own pants in frantic motions. The wet patch across your boxers had already seeped through the denim. No way was that passing for sweat.

“Okay,” you muttered, a little too loudly. “Okay, okay, okay. Maybe if—”

The idea hit you both at the same time.

Grease.

Cate stared at the rag, then at the stain on her dress, then at your zipper. “You’re not serious,” she said.

You were already smearing. “You got a better plan, princess?”

You pressed the heel of your hand into your own thigh, grinding dark fingerprints into the denim above and around the damp patch. It wasn’t perfect, but between sweat, cum and grease, it read more “I wiped my hands on my jeans like an animal” than “I just got jerked off against a pillar.”

“Come here,” you hissed.

Cate barely had time to squeak before you caught her by the hip and dragged her in, pressing the filthy rag into the wetness on her dress. You rubbed hard, blending the darker stain into wider, more ambiguous smudges.

“You’re ruining my dress,” Cate gritted out between clenched teeth, her whisper so exaggeratedly furious it would’ve been convincing if she weren’t still flushed and trembling.

“Actually, I’m saving your ass,” you shot back. “Turn.”

You manhandled Cate by the waist, dragging the rag across the back of her skirt in a few strategic streaks. It looked ridiculous. It also looked like she’d leaned against a car and lost.

Out front, the bell over the customer entrance jingled. The side door hinges shrieked open, a sound Cate had heard a thousand times.

Cate’s heart did a full somersault.

You looked at the closed bay door and swore under your breath. “Shit. He’ll think I’m napping in here.” You slapped the button. The metal gate rattled up just enough to make it look intentional rather than incriminating, stopping halfway with a groan. Outside, the blue pickup sat crooked in its usual spot.

For half a second, you stared at it like the truck itself had come to collect your soul. Then you turned back to Cate, and whatever color was left in your face drained out.

“You, uh…you look like…” you said. 

Cate yanked her phone out of her bag, flipping to the front camera. One look made her wince. Hair skewed, lipstick smeared to hell, pupils looking like she’d just seen God and liked what she saw.

“Oh, great, I look freshly fucked,” she muttered.

“Hot,” you said, then winced like you’d heard yourself be useless in real time. “For me, anyway.” Your eyes darted toward the bay door. “But maybe not for Dunlap.”

Cate snatched the rag from you and found the cleanest corner by instinct, blotting carefully at her mouth instead of scrubbing, redistributing pigment into something less obviously post-orgasmic. The lipstick came away uneven, leaving her lips softer, less devoured-looking, though still swollen enough to incriminate her. Her pupils were still blown, but there was nothing she could do about that short of sticking her head in the parts washer.

You reached out impulsively and straightened the fallen strap of her dress, fingers brushing the warm curve of Cate’s shoulder. “There,” you said, softer. “You look…fine.”

Cate snorted, sarcastic. “You have no idea how reassuring that is, coming from you.”

You, who could still feel your own heartbeat in places it had no business being, forced yourself to move. You grabbed the nearest wrench, some random size that matched absolutely nothing you’d been working on, and planted yourself next to the lifted car.

Deep breath. Shoulders back.

You rolled your neck, popped a new toothpick between your teeth, and tried to remember how to be the cool, lazy mechanic who’d been here for all of two weeks and desperately needed this job.

Then you looked at Cate.

Cate, still too close. Cate, flushed and bright-eyed, sundress strap barely fixed, standing in the middle of the bay like the prettiest piece of evidence anyone had ever left at a crime scene.

Your grip tightened around the wrench. “You should…go stand over there or something,” you said, jerking your chin toward the far side of the shop, away from you. “Look like you just got here.”

“I did just get here,” Cate said primly. “Sort of.”

“You know what I mean.”

Cate scooped up her purse, fingers still slightly tacky even after the rag, and sashayed toward the far workbench. She prayed no one would notice her legs were still a little shaky. She leaned a hip against the bench and picked up a random part, turning it over like it was fascinating.

Her heart thudded. Her cunt ached, pleasantly sore. She could still feel the ghost of your fingers inside her when she shifted her weight.

Across the bay, you gave her one frantic look that said, Please act normal.

Cate lifted the random metal piece a little higher and widened her eyes at it, as if she had developed a sudden, scholarly interest in whatever the hell it was.

Eric called out your name, cheerful and unaware. “You in here or did the heat finally finish the job the state started?”

You rolled your eyes reflexively, then caught yourself and pasted on something resembling respect. “In here,” you called back. Your voice only cracked slightly. Not bad.

For one glorious, delusional second, you thought you might actually pull this off.

Then the office door banged open.

Eric strode into the bay in his standard uniform: oil-stained coveralls half-zipped, t-shirt underneath that said EAT MY DUST in cracked white letters. His hair, grayer at the temples every year, stuck up at odd angles like he’d been running his hands through it for the last hour. The man was a walking laundry disaster.

Eric saw you first, naturally. You were front and center, wrench in hand, tank clinging, tattoos on display. If you were still flushed, he didn’t comment on it. His gaze flicked down once, taking in the smears of grease on your jeans, then moved on. Probably exactly what you’d both hoped for.

He made it three more steps before the heat hit him properly, his face creasing as he squinted toward the open garage door, then back at the button on the wall like it had personally betrayed him.

“What’d I tell you about closing the door?” He grumbled. “Feels like Satan’s asscrack in here as it is.”

You lifted the wrench, trying to make it look like you’d been using it this whole time. “Had the intake open,” you said, nodding toward the car. “Didn’t want dust getting all up in the lady’s guts.”

Eric paused, blinked, then nodded, conceding the point.

Behind him, a younger guy stepped in, still chewing the last of a burger, brown hair sticking up in sweat-curled tufts. Caleb, you remembered from half-heard conversations: helped out around the shop sometimes, took classes, rolled his eyes a lot.

“You trying to cook her in here or what?” Caleb asked, sweeping a look around the bay. “It’s like ninety.”

Eric shot him a look. “She had the intake open, genius. You want road dust in Mrs. Alvarez’s engine because you’re delicate?”

Caleb lifted both hands, burger still pinched in one of them. “I’m just saying, my organs are boiling.”

“Then take your organs to the office,” Eric said. “Door stays down until she’s done.”

You kept your jaw loose, fingers relaxed on the wrench even as every nerve in your body screamed. You could feel the damp patch cooling inside her jeans. Could feel the faint pull of your fly against barely contained thickness. Could feel, like a phantom, the press of Cate’s hand.

Eric wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Parts show up?”

“Yeah,” you said, proud that your voice mostly cooperated. “Box in the corner. Intake’s half on. Another hour and she’ll be purring.”

Eric nodded. “Atta girl.” He shuffled the rag in his hand, then looked around again. “We get any walk-ins while I was gone?”

You felt Cate’s presence like a knife between your shoulder blades.

“Uh, yeah,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed on Eric’s face, determined not to let your gaze skate traitorously toward Cate. The grease smears on your own jeans felt like neon signs. “You got…someone waiting.”

Eric huffed, already sounding resigned. “What’d you do, leave your number on an invoice?”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it. “Not this time.”

“Mhm.”

“What? I’m growing as a person.” You rolled the toothpick from one side of your mouth to the other, still not looking at Cate. “Blonde. Pretty. Said she was here to see you.”

From her corner, Cate sank her teeth into the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Her heart still hammered, but the edges of her fear had gone fizzy with adrenaline.

Caleb perked up instantly. “Where?” His gaze started darting around like a golden retriever’s. “You holding out on us already, new girl?”

You didn’t look at the far bench. Didn’t look at the smears on Cate’s dress. Didn’t look at the way your hands probably still had grease in every line.

“Back there somewhere,” you said instead, jerking your chin toward the shadows.

Eric sighed like a man deeply wronged by fate. “Unless the shop fairy turned into a swimsuit model while I was gone, I’m guessing that’s just—”

“Hi, daddy!”

Cate’s voice cut through the air like a bell, bright and sugar-sweet, ricocheting off metal and concrete.

You flinched on reflex. Everything in you snapped to attention. The word hit the same place it had ten minutes ago, hot and low and Pavlovian, and you whipped around so fast the wrench nearly slipped from your hand.

You froze halfway through the turn.

Because Cate wasn’t looking at you.

Cate was halfway across the bay already, dress swinging, purse bouncing against her hip. She went straight past you, straight past the car, straight into Eric’s arms.

He caught her without missing a beat, laughing as she looped her arms around his neck like she’d been doing it since she could walk, body pressing into the front of his filthy coveralls with zero concern for her clothes.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said into her hair, voice turned warm and mushy in a way you’d never heard. “You’re gonna break my back one of these days.”

“You’re strong, you’ll survive,” Cate said, grinning, nose pressed into his shoulder. 

You watched everything unfold and had the horrifying thought that Cate probably still smelled like the sex you’d barely managed to wipe off her skin. Close up, tucked against Eric’s chest like that, there was no way to know what he might catch.

Eric set Cate back on her feet, keeping a hand on her shoulder like he didn’t quite trust gravity not to steal her away. “What’re you doing down here, kiddo?” he asked. “Thought you were gonna study. Or whatever it is you pretend to do at that fancy school.”

“Thought you might want these before you tried to read another invoice by threatening it,” Cate said brightly, producing his reading glasses from her purse.

Eric squinted at her, then at the glasses. “Knew I left those somewhere.”

“Kitchen counter,” Cate said. “Right next to the coffee you also forgot.”

Caleb snorted behind him, the laugh escaping around the last bite of his burger. Eric shot a warning look over his shoulder. “You keep chewing.”

“I am chewing,” Caleb said, muffled and innocent.

Eric grunted, already sliding the glasses onto the top of his head instead of his face. Cate opened her mouth to comment on that too, but Caleb was faster. The second Eric set her back on her feet, Caleb swooped in from the side and hooked an arm around her shoulders, dragging her into a sloppy half-hug that nearly knocked her purse off her arm.

“Careful, Catie,” he said, squeezing her obnoxiously. “You walk in here lookin’ like that and someone’s gonna blow a gasket.”

Your grip tightened around the wrench so fast your knuckles ached. For one insane second, you thought he knew. Thought Caleb had somehow looked at Cate’s messy hair, her swollen mouth, the careful angle of her body and seen the whole thing written there in neon. Then Caleb grinned, entirely too pleased with himself, and you realized he was just being an annoying little brother.

“Hi to you too,” Cate said dryly, elbowing him. “Did you bring me fries or are you useless as always?”

“No fries for traitors.”

“I drove all the way here to keep our father literate.”

“That’s like, bare minimum daughter behavior.”

They fell into sibling bickering like muscle memory, easy and sharp and affectionate beneath the insults. Eric watched them with the long-suffering fondness of a man who had built an entire life out of pretending not to enjoy this.

You stood rooted to the spot, wrench heavy in your hand, brain quietly catching fire.

You gotta be fucking kidding me, you thought, and somehow managed not to say it out loud.

Cate. Catie. Eric. Caleb. The names pinged around in your head like loose bolts.

You remembered Eric mentioning his kids once, almost offhand, somewhere between bitching about tuition, car insurance, and the way teenagers apparently treated brake pads like a renewable resource. You also remembered the old family photo in the office, half-hidden behind a stack of invoices when you’d signed your hiring paperwork: Eric younger and less gray, one arm around a boy with Caleb’s grin, the other around a blonde girl with bright eyes and a smile already sharp enough to get her out of trouble.

You looked at Cate again, watching all of it unfold like someone had dropped you into a movie halfway through and forgotten to give you a script. At the way Caleb still had her hooked under one arm, at the casual way she stole the rag from Eric’s hand and used it to wipe a smear of ketchup off Caleb’s chin, ignoring his immediate protest. At the way Eric watched her do it with fond exasperation, like this was an old ritual and not the most devastating reveal of your adult life.

Cate felt you watching. Of course she did. She could feel you like a magnet in the back of her skull, heat and panic and something else prickling along her spine. She let herself enjoy it for two whole seconds before she glanced over Caleb's shoulder while Eric was busy settling his glasses onto his face, and finally, deliberately, met your eyes.

You looked, briefly, like you might drop dead on the spot.

Cate’s mouth curved. She didn’t wink. That would have been too much, too obvious. Instead, she let her expression go sweet and contrite, all wide eyes and soft cheeks, and silently shaped one word at you across the bay.

Oops.

You felt your stomach drop, your blood go cold and hot at the same time.

Eric, oblivious, followed the line of Cate’s gaze. “Oh hey,” he said, brightening, hand still resting proud on his daughter’s shoulder. “You two met already, huh?”

Cate turned, all sugar and innocence, leaning lightly into his side. The grease smear on her sundress looked exactly like she’d brushed up against a fender. Only you knew better.

“We’ve been talking,” she said sweetly. “She was keeping me company while I waited. She’s very…attentive.”

You tried not to choke. Caleb’s eyebrows shot up. Eric just nodded, pleased.

“Good, good,” he said. “She’s the best thing that’s happened to this place since air tools. Knows her way around an engine better than most of the clowns that apply here. And she works, too. None of that phone bullshit.” He gave you an approving jerk of his chin. “You keep that up, we’re gonna make a decent mechanic outta you yet.”

You managed a sound that might, in generous light, be mistaken for a laugh. “Yessir,” you said. Your voice came out a touch higher than usual. “Just, uh. Doing my job.”

Cate’s eyes danced. “She’s very committed to it,” she said, voice bright with manufactured innocence. “You’re in good hands, daddy.”

Your fingers spasmed around the wrench. The urge to sink through the concrete or spontaneously combust was almost overwhelming. Either would be fine.

Cate stepped sideways, brushing past you on her way out. The proximity was deliberate, just close enough that your arms almost touched. The faint scent of her perfume hit you again, floral and bright over sweat and grease. It made the aftershocks in your body flare.

As she passed, Cate let her fingers twitch once, barely grazing the back of your hand where it hung at your side. Too light for anyone else to see. Heavy as a promise.

Her voice was quiet, meant for you alone. “See you around.”

You didn’t trust yourself to answer. Instead, you smiled weakly and decided, very clearly and very specifically, that you were absolutely, totally, cosmically fucked.

For three days, you saw her everywhere.

Not literally, which was somehow worse. There was no Cate leaning against the office door, no Cate perched on the front counter, no Cate wandering into the bay with those kissable lips and dangerous eyes and the kind of dress that made workplace safety feel like a myth invented by the involuntarily celibate. There was only the absence of her, which you discovered was its own form of haunting.

You found yourself looking up every time the bell over the front door jingled. Found yourself wiping your hands twice before stepping into the office, like Cate might be there and you might need to look less like a walking oil spill. Found yourself listening for a voice you had no business wanting to hear again.

Which was stupid.

Dangerously stupid.

The garage taught you to hear things before they became problems.

The hiccup in a starter. The thin, bright scrape of a belt about to go. The wrong rattle under the hood of Mrs. Kline’s Chevy that wasn’t the muffler no matter how many times Mrs. Kline insisted her cousin knew a muffler sound when he heard one. You’d always been good at listening to machines, probably because machines never pretended to be anything but fucked until fixed. They complained honestly. They leaked where they were hurt. They didn’t walk into your workplace in a little pink dress, let you put your fingers inside them, make you cum in your own jeans, and then reveal they were your boss’s daughter with a smile sweet enough to commit fraud.

Machines were civilized.

People were a dumpster fire with legs.

For three days after the Cate Dunlap incidentTM, you existed in a state of mechanical hypervigilance that bordered on religious punishment. You worked. You worked well. Better than well, actually, because panic did excellent things for productivity when it had nowhere else to go. You changed oil, bled brakes, installed an alternator, cleaned a carburetor until it shone like something that had confessed its sins, and replaced a belt on an old Tacoma while thinking very hard about not thinking about Cate’s thighs bracketing your hand.

It didn’t work.

Everything turned into her. The smear of pink chalk Caleb used to mark a tire rotation became the color of her dress. The cherry scent of the cheap air fresheners by the counter became the soft, bright perfume that had clung to Cate’s neck. The snap of latex gloves reminded you of Cate’s mouth pulling off yours, breathless and bruised. The word daddy became an active threat. Eric said it once in passing, something about a customer telling her kid to “ask daddy which tires he wanted,” and you dropped a socket straight into an oil drain pan.

“You good?” Caleb had asked, leaning around the side of the Civic you’d been under, eyebrows raised.

“Livin’ the dream,” you muttered, fishing blindly through warm oil for the lost socket. “The dream has sludge in it.”

Caleb snorted and disappeared again.

He was too perceptive. That was the problem with younger brothers, you thought bitterly. Caleb was observant enough to notice, annoying enough to say something, and blessed with the exact sibling-born talent of standing precisely where you didn’t want him.

Eric, somehow, noticed nothing.

Or maybe he noticed only in the broad, fatherly way that men like him noticed things: you were working hard, eating badly, drinking too much coffee, and keeping your nose clean. Good enough. He clapped you on the shoulder twice since and told you that you were “settling in,” which made you feel like a criminal being praised for hiding the body properly.

By the fourth day, you’d started flinching at every bell.

The customer entrance jingled and your whole spine went rigid. Delivery driver. The side door opened and you nearly brained herself on a chassis. Caleb. The office phone rang and you glanced toward the front like Cate might materialize through the receiver, voice pitched soft enough to ruin you from three rooms away.

“She’s got you jumpy,” Caleb said that afternoon.

You went still, elbow-deep in the engine bay of a dented Subaru. “Who?”

Caleb leaned against the tool chest with the hateful leisure of someone born into his place in the world. He had a soda in one hand and a rag in the other, neither being used for their intended purpose. “Didn’t say a name.”

“Then you’re talking to yourself.” You ducked back under the hood. “Which checks out.”

“Mhm.” Caleb slurped his soda. “You know, Cate does that.”

Your wrench slipped.

Your knuckles hit something metal, pain sparking hot across your hand. “Fuck.”

Caleb grinned. “That.”

“Your sister makes people hurt themselves?”

“My sister makes people act like they’ve never seen a woman before. You’re doing the thing.”

You straightened slowly, flexing your injured hand. The bandage from the other day was gone, replaced by a fresh scrape across the same two knuckles. Very poetic. Very stupid. “Your sister dropped by once.”

“Yeah, and now you look at the door like it owes you money.”

You stared him down. Caleb stared back, cheerfully unbothered.

“I’m observant,” he said.

“You’re unemployed with a hobby.”

“I work here.”

“You hover here.”

He shrugged. “I’m family. Hovering is in the benefits package.”

You wiped your hands on a rag, resisting the urge to throw it at him. “Don’t you have a fuel filter to misplace?”

“Already did.” Caleb pushed off the tool chest and started backward toward the office, walking with the loose, obnoxious confidence of someone who had been loved too openly to fear consequences. “Anyway. Cate’s got class today. Long day. So you can stop looking like you’re gonna be jumped at any minute.”

You hated the relief that moved through you. Hated it more than anything else that week.

“Wasn’t worried,” you called after him.

Caleb laughed. “Sure, buddy.”

By Friday, you had almost convinced yourself it was over.

The logic was solid enough if you didn’t think about it too hard. Cate was your boss’s daughter. Beautiful, spoiled, reckless, obviously used to getting exactly what she wanted and bored once she had it. You were a new hire with a record, one bad reference away from being unemployable somewhere that wasn’t night shift warehouse work or a kitchen with questionable ventilation. Cate had gotten the thrill of the dirty mechanic in the family garage. You’d gotten the kind of orgasm that made you nearly rethink the concept of God. You’d both survived. Great. Done. Put a bow on it, throw it in the dumpster, set the dumpster on fire, deny everything under oath.

The bell over the customer door stayed quiet all morning. Eric and Caleb were both in and out, orbiting around a nightmare of a Ford F-150 whose owner had apparently believed oil was optional if you had enough confidence. Around noon, Caleb came in from the office saying something about a stranded Jeep across town. Eric grumbled for all of three seconds before grabbing his keys, because he couldn’t hear the words won’t start without developing some sort of moral obligation.

“Consider this an educational field trip,” Eric had said, as he led Caleb out to the truck.

Caleb had groaned. “I literally work here.”

“Then start acting like the gene pool gave you tools.”

The garage settled.

No Eric booming from the office. No Caleb making commentary like a Greek chorus with a learner’s permit. No customers in the waiting area, no voices drifting from the front, no familiar truck rattling in the lot. Just you, the radio mumbling through static, and the mid-July heat pressing against the bay doors.

You’d been left alone with a ’69 Camaro the color of black coffee, its driver’s side door open, its dash half-gutted beneath the shop lights, and the blessed chance to work without anyone talking at you.

The car had come in smelling like cigarettes, sun-baked leather, and somebody’s second divorce. You had one boot planted on the concrete, the rest of your body folded awkwardly inside as you wrestled with the wiring behind the dash.

Your cap was backward again, curls damp at your temples, tank top stuck to the hollow of her spine. Sweat gathered beneath the band of your sports bra and slid down your ribs in slow, irritating lines, arms already streaked with grease.

You’d just found the bad connection when the bell jingled.

Your whole body reacted before your brain gave it permission. Your wrist jerked, the back of your hand smacking the underside of the dash.

“Fuck,” you hissed, ducking your head out of the footwell.

The bell’s echo faded through the empty front office.

You stayed still, half in the car, listening.

Heels on concrete.

Not heavy. Not a work boot. A click, then another, measured and light.

Your stomach dropped.

No. Absolutely not. The universe had standards. Surely.

The footsteps paused near the office, then drifted into the bay like they owned the place. You slowly turned your head.

Cate stood in the mouth of the garage wearing a white sundress and sunglasses, looking like a pristine thing delivered by mistake to a filthy world.

This dress was worse than the pink one, because it looked innocent from far away and criminal up close. It was one of those soft little things with buttons down the front and a skirt that moved around her thighs when she walked. Her hair was loose over her shoulders in soft blonde waves that caught the light, as if she hadn’t spent any time making it look exactly that way. Her sandals were glossy red. Her mouth matched them. In one hand she held a cardboard drink carrier with two iced coffees sweating through their cups. In the other, a small paper bag folded at the top.

You stared.

Cate pushed the sunglasses up into her hair and smiled. “Hi.”

Your first thought was not remotely safe for work.

Your second was: I need to leave the state.

Your third, arriving with terrible clarity, was: She planned this.

The garage had gone too quiet. You slid out of the Camaro with as much dignity as one could manage while sweaty, greasy, and actively trying not to look at the way sunlight moved through cotton when Cate took three steps forward.

You dragged your eyes back to the Camaro with all the strength of a woman attempting emergency re-entry into civilized society. “No.”

Cate’s heels gave a light tap against the concrete as she stepped into the bay. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“You didn’t need to.” You ducked back into the driver’s side doorway, one boot planted on the concrete, the rest of you angled awkwardly inside as you reached beneath the dash. You fit the wire strippers around absolutely nothing useful with much more aggression than the wiring deserved. “Whatever you’re about to do, no.”

A pause, delicate and put-on. “I brought you coffee.”

“Weaponized coffee.”

“And food.”

“Bribery.”

Cate gave a soft, affronted exhale. You could hear the smile inside it, that pleased little curl of amusement you’d already learned was dangerous. “I didn’t realize it was illegal to be thoughtful.”

“It’s illegal for you to be in here when your dad’s not around.”

“Technically, I think it would be weirder if he were around.”

You barked a laugh before you could stop yourself, then immediately regretted rewarding her. The wire strippers clicked once, twice, and slipped because your hand had gotten slick against the grip. You straightened with a sharp sigh, braced one hand on the Camaro’s roof, and turned around.

That was your second mistake. The first had been letting Cate touch you at all.

Cate had placed the drinks and the paper bag on the cleanest corner of the workbench, apparently finding this small act domestic enough to be pleased by it. Up close, she looked cool and expensive and utterly wrong against the stained concrete and tool carts, which meant she looked exactly right for the specific kind of ruin your self-control seemed determined to pursue.

You tightened your jaw. “Your dad’s gonna be gone for at least an hour.”

Cate tipped her head. “Is he?”

Her expression didn’t change fast enough.

There it was. A tiny flash. Satisfaction, bright as a match behind her eyes.

You stared at her.

Of course Cate knew. Of course she’d known before she ever stepped through the door, probably before she’d picked the dress, probably before she’d ordered two iced coffees and packed the little paper bag like a prop in a very horny sting operation.

“Right,” you said flatly. “So obviously this is premeditated.”

Cate’s mouth dropped open, one hand lifting to her chest like you’d just accused her of armed robbery, blue eyes going wide with theatrical offense. “Premeditated?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you wandered into your father’s garage at the exact moment he and your brother are out chasing some mystery tow because you suddenly developed an intense interest in dashboard wiring.”

“Maybe I missed you.”

The sentence was soft enough that it scraped you in an entirely different place than Cate’s usual teasing. Your grip tightened around the rag hanging from your pocket. You wiped it over your hands because you needed them occupied, needed something between yourself and the memory of your hands gripping Cate’s hips against a concrete pillar.

“You met me once,” you said.

Cate’s smile turned just a little less playful. “It was a very memorable once.”

Your cock gave an inconvenient pulse inside your jeans. You looked away quickly, scanning the Camaro’s open door, the gutted dash, the dark footwell, as if any of them might hand her a usable exit strategy.

Five days. It had been five days since she’d found out the pretty stranger who had been moaning her name in Bay Three was Eric Dunlap’s daughter. Five days of showing up early, putting her head down, working like a machine, and avoiding every thought that began with Cate’s mouth or ended with the breathy, devastating way she’d said daddy before turning around and revealing an entirely different daddy had just walked through the door.

Eric had been decent to you. More than decent. He’d looked at the felony on your application, looked at the ugly, empty years behind it, and asked whether you could rebuild a transmission. When you’d said yes, he’d pushed a tool cart your way and told you not to make him regret it.

You needed this job. Needed the paychecks, needed the clean routine, needed someone on the outside willing to believe you could be more than a charge sheet and a parole officer’s appointment calendar. Fucking the boss’s daughter in his own shop was not how a woman safeguarded a second chance.

Even when the boss’s daughter was standing three feet away looking like every bad choice you’d ever wanted to make had been distilled into perfume and bare legs.

“You can’t miss me,” you said, voice flatter than it felt. “You don’t even know me.”

Cate’s expression flickered. Not wounded, exactly. More like interested in the bruise beneath the words. She took one slow step closer. “Then let me.”

You laughed once, without humor. “This isn’t a date, Cate.”

“It could be.”

“Here?”

“You have a coffee. I have a coffee. You’re avoiding my eyes because you’re thinking about me naked. That’s already better than most dates I’ve been on.”

This time you couldn’t help it. You looked.

Cate rewarded you with the faintest lift of her chin, the movement elegant and shameless. Her dress floated around her legs when the box fan swung in your direction, cooling nothing, only carrying the scent of her deeper into the bay. Vanilla and something floral, mingled with shop heat and motor oil.

“Jesus Christ,” you said quietly.

“I remembered your order.”

You stared at the iced coffee, condensation dripping down the cup. “You don’t know my order.”

“Black with an extra shot.”

You scoffed. “That’s not an order. That’s what everyone thinks mechanics drink in porn.”

Cate laughed, genuinely this time, a bright little sound that seemed absurd in the hot, hollow garage. “Fine. I guessed. Was I wrong?”

You looked at her for a long second, then crossed the distance to the workbench and snatched the coffee. You took a sip through the straw, refusing to make eye contact as the cold bitterness hit your tongue.

Cate watched you expectantly.

“It’s fine,” you said.

“Mm. Rave review.”

“Don’t get smug. You haven’t earned smug.”

Cate glanced meaningfully at the lower half of your body, then raised her eyes again. “I thought I made a fairly strong case for it last time.”

You nearly inhaled coffee into your lungs. You coughed, turning away, one palm braced on the Camaro’s roof.

“Nope,” you said when you could breathe again. “No. We’re not talking about last time.”

“That’s unfortunate. I’ve thought about it quite a lot.”

“Cate.”

“Especially your fingers.”

You set the coffee down harder than necessary. The plastic cup rocked, ice clattering inside it.

“Stop.”

Cate did. Immediately.

The little pause that followed changed the air. You felt it before you looked up, the shift from Cate pressing because she liked the game to Cate waiting because she already understood the severity in your voice. Her smile had softened away, her hands folded loosely in front of her sundress, eyes clear and attentive.

You dragged a hand down your face, smearing sweat and a faint stripe of grease along your temple. “I’m not saying I don’t want you.”

Cate’s lashes lowered slightly. “I know.”

“That is very much the fucking problem.” You pushed away from the car, restless energy pricking under your skin. You paced once toward the tool chest and back. “Your dad gave me a job. A real one. Do you know how many people looked at me after I got out and saw the word felon before they saw my face?”

Cate didn’t answer. Her posture remained still, but you saw the careful attention in her eyes, the way all of Cate’s bright, provocative movement quieted when something mattered.

“He didn’t,” you continued, hating that the words were already coming out now, too honest and too rough. “He said he didn’t care what I did before as long as I didn’t bring any bullshit into his shop. And then his daughter shows up in a dress with coffee and starts looking at me like…” You broke off, jaw flexing.

“Like what?” Cate asked softly.

Your laugh was a strained thing. “Like I’m something you want to eat alive.”

Cate’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t entirely a joke. “Maybe you are.”

“See?” You gestured at her helplessly. “This. You do this, and I forget that I’m supposed to have a functional survival instinct.”

“Isn’t that the fun of it, though?”

You closed your eyes.

There it was. Sugary and terrible and delivered with that voice, the one that made recklessness sound less like a fatal character flaw and more like a door you simply hadn’t had the nerve to open yet.

“No,” you said, reopening them. “That’s the part where I wind up unemployed and your dad uses a tire iron to introduce me to God.”

“He won’t murder you.” Cate leaned her hip against the fender, crossing one ankle over the other. “He likes you.”

You stared at her. “That makes it worse.”

“Being liked?”

“Being trusted.” Your voice sharpened around the word, and you hated how much it gave away. “There’s a difference.” You swallowed, your tongue clicking against your teeth, mouth suddenly dry. “This is a bad idea.”

“I know.”

“Catastrophically bad.”

“I know.”

“I could lose this job.”

“I know.” Cate stepped close enough that you could see the quick pulse beneath the skin of her throat. There was nothing uncertain in her expression now, no careless little performance, only the bright insistence of a grown woman accustomed to wanting what she wanted and sharp enough to understand the stakes. “I’m not asking you to pretend it’s smart. I’m asking whether you want me enough to do something stupid.”

You stared down at her. The fan shuddered in the corner. Somewhere outside, a delivery truck groaned through the intersection, brakes squealing in the heat. The radio slid from one old rock song into another, guitar filling the silence between you.

You laughed under your breath, disbelieving. “You are unbelievable.”

“Sometimes.” Cate’s fingers skimmed the edge of the open car door. “Sometimes I’m very believable.”

“You’re my boss’s daughter.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“No, don’t stand there saying that like it’s just a fun fact while you’re looking like that.”

Cate glanced down at herself, feigning surprise. “Like what?”

“Like entrapment with lip gloss.”

That startled a real laugh out of her, bright and delighted. It filled the bay, bounced off the Camaro, went straight into your bloodstream like a spark hitting gasoline. Cate covered her mouth for a second, shoulders shaking. The laugh made her younger somehow. Less polished. More dangerous.

Your resolve, already coughing blood in a ditch, made a weak little noise and died.

Cate took the final step between your bodies. Not touching yet. Close enough that you could smell her perfume, something clean and floral over the warm cotton of her dress. Close enough that you could see the faint sheen of sweat at her throat, the little pulse fluttering there like a trapped moth.

“I thought about you,” Cate said softly.

Your hands curled at your sides. “Don’t.”

“I thought about your hands.”

“Cate.”

“And your mouth.” Cate’s gaze dropped there, lingered. “And the way you looked at me when you realized who I was.”

“Like I was seeing my parole officer in hell?”

“Like you wanted me anyway.”

You swallowed. Your mouth was dry. “Wanting isn’t the issue.”

“No?”

“No.” Your voice came out rougher now, dragged over gravel. “Wanting you is apparently the easiest, dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

Cate’s face changed, pleasure blooming high in her cheeks before she tried to hide it. “That’s almost romantic.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s a little romantic.”

“It’s a felony-adjacent HR violation.”

Cate gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “My dad does not have HR.”

“That doesn’t improve my situation.” You backed up a step and hit the Camaro’s doorframe with your hip. Perfect. Great. Nowhere to go but into the car or through Cate, and the second option had already proven to be a career-ending hazard.

Cate noticed. Her eyes flicked to the driver’s seat behind you, then back. A slow thought moved across her face, one you desperately wished you could swat out of the air before it landed.

“No,” you said.

Cate smiled.

“Do not smile at me like that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“I’m always thinking something.”

“I’m serious.” You braced one hand on the roof of the Camaro, the other on the door. “We are not doing this again. Especially not in a customer’s car. That’s insane.”

Cate stepped into your space.

You sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it, because now Cate’s perfume was in your lungs. Cate’s hand lifted, two fingers brushing the chain at your neck where it disappeared beneath the sweaty collar of your tank. The touch was featherlight. It still made you stiffen, every nerve turning toward Cate.

“You’re very dramatic for someone who came on my dress less than a week ago,” Cate said.

“I’m going to die.”

“Not yet.” Cate tugged gently on the chain, not enough to pull, just enough to make your head tilt. “You haven’t even let me kiss you again.”

Your eyes slipped shut like that might save you. “This is a bad idea.”

“Probably.”

“We can’t.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“That is not the same as can’t, and you fucking know it.”

Cate’s smile sharpened, pleased in a way that made your grip tighten on the car door.

You opened your eyes. “You’re evil.”

“I’m bored.”

“That’s worse.”

“I’m bored,” Cate repeated, but the softness under it trembled. “And I keep thinking about how you looked at me like I was the first thing you’d wanted in years.”

Your expression cracked before you could stop it.

Cate saw that too. The tiny wince. The way your throat worked once, hard. The way your fingers flexed on the car roof like you needed something solid beneath your hand.

The air changed. It always did when Cate stopped playing with the pretty knives and reached for the ones under the ribs.

She said your name, quieter.

“Don’t make this sweet,” you muttered. “I can survive horny. Sweet is what gets people in trouble.”

Cate’s lips parted. The want in her face shifted, deepened. “You think this is just horny?”

“I think I’m trying not to ask questions that make me dumber than I already am.”

Cate reached up and touched the grease on your cheek with her thumb, smearing it instead of wiping it away. Her eyes tracked the mark like she’d done it on purpose, like she liked leaving proof. “You aren’t stupid.”

“I’m about to be.”

The corner of Cate’s mouth lifted. “Yeah?”

You should have stepped back. You should have put both hands up, walked into the office, and locked yourself inside until Eric came back to save you from yourself. Instead, you stood there while Cate’s fingers slid from your cheek to your jaw, then down to the front of your tank.

“Last chance,” you said, even though it was a lie and you both knew it.

“For me or you?”

You huffed a laugh, helpless and furious about it. “God, you’re a pain in my ass.”

Cate leaned in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “You noticed.”

You turned your head and caught her mouth.

The kiss lit so fast it felt less like starting and more like something already burning through the floorboards. Cate made a soft, pleased sound and pushed into you, one hand fisting in the front of your tank, the other sliding around the back of your neck. Your hand went to Cate’s waist on instinct, greasy fingers curling over white cotton, and some lucid part of your brain screamed about fingerprints on a sundress before being shoved under by the feel of Cate’s tongue against yours.

She kissed differently this time. Last time there was a spark and panic and you pushing her up against concrete. This time Cate took. Not forcefully. Not clumsy. She kissed like she’d arrived with an agenda and a schedule, like every little tilt of her head had been rehearsed privately and improved in the moment. She nipped at your lower lip, soothed it with her tongue, pulled back just far enough to make you chase.

“Fuck,” you breathed against her.

Cate’s answering smile touched your mouth. “Language.”

Your laugh broke into a groan when Cate’s hand dropped to the front of your jeans. “Do not start with me.”

“I thought I already had.”

You caught her wrist. “Cate.”

Your tone was serious. Cate went still enough to listen, though her fingers stayed curled just above the button of your jeans.

You breathed through your nose, trying to wrestle sense from the molten wreckage of your nervous system. “If you’re doing this because it’s fun to make me squirm, fine. Congratulations. I’m squirming. I’m squirm city. Population: me. But if this is just a game you’re gonna get bored of once I’m fired and living under a bridge, I need you to stop.”

Cate’s smile faltered. Not enough to look guilty, not enough to retreat, but enough that the game slipped sideways for a second. Her eyes stayed on your face, suddenly more careful than teasing.

Then she leaned in and kissed you again, soft this time, maddeningly soft. It was barely more than a press of lips, warm and steady, her body still close enough to make every warning in your head flash red.

“I don’t want to get you fired,” Cate said against your mouth. “I don’t want you living under a bridge.”

“Great. So civic-minded.”

Cate’s fingers tightened in your tank. “And I’m not bored with you.”

You tried not to react. Failed.

It would have been easier if Cate had stayed a game. A beautiful, overly sexual little disaster who liked getting under your skin and under your clothes. It was harder to resist the plain truth in her face, the way her thumb moved once across your knuckles, stroking over the bandage she herself had put there five days earlier.

Cate saw the flicker and pressed closer. “I came here because I wanted to see you.”

You stared at her for half a second before laughter escaped you, disbelieving and breathless. “You are so fucking spoiled.”

Cate’s gaze snapped back to you, pupils widening. “Say that again.”

Your amusement faltered into heat. “Spoiled?”

Cate kissed you before you could sharpen it further. This time, when she pushed, you moved with her. One step back. Then another. Your thighs hit the edge of the driver’s seat, and Cate used the moment, palm flat against your chest, to shove you gently but decisively back into the car.

The Camaro had been babied all morning, polished paint shining under the shop lights, interior cleaned until the old leather gave off a warm, sun-baked smell every time you opened the door. You’d spent half your shift working inside it with reverent patience, careful with the brittle plastic around the dash, careful with the wiring, careful with the kind of vintage car that made grown men use the word original like a prayer.

Now Cate had both hands on your chest and was shoving you backward into the driver’s seat.

You had one passing, doomed thought about Eric’s reaction to discovering grease-stained fingerprints on the upholstery, or worse, fingerprints that were sticky from other fluids.

Then Cate moved in, and the Camaro ceased to be a customer’s car so much as a cramped, leather-lined confession booth with terrible ventilation and no room left for good decisions.

You landed in the seat with a grunt, knees still outside, boots planted on the concrete, torso angled awkwardly because the steering wheel hemmed you in. “Jesus, Cate.”

Cate followed before you could recover. She stepped between your knees, gathered the skirt of her dress in one hand, and climbed into your lap with determined precision. One knee sank into the worn driver’s seat beside your hip, the other bracing near the edge as she straddled you. The car creaked beneath their combined weight. Your hands flew to Cate’s hips automatically, steadying her before your better judgment could get a word in.

“Absolutely not,” you said, breath already uneven. “No. This is not happening. Get down.”

Cate settled her weight over your thighs. “You’re holding me.”

You looked at your own hands like they’d betrayed you entirely. “That’s because I don’t want you falling.”

“How noble.”

“I’m chivalrous as hell.”

Cate’s fingers slid under the brim of your backward cap and tugged it off. Your damp curls sprang loose, unruly from heat and sweat, falling over your forehead as Cate tossed the cap onto the passenger seat.

“There,” Cate whispered, threading her fingers through the mess she’d made. “Much better.”

You lifted your head, eyes dark and mouth already too close. “You come in here just to redecorate me?”

“I came in here to get your hands back under my dress.”

For a second, you just stared at her.

Then your hands moved.

They slid under Cate’s skirt with the kind of helpless, decisive hunger that made Cate’s smile falter into something softer and far less smug. Your palms dragged up the backs of her thighs, rough with calluses, warm from the shop heat, leaving invisible tracks over skin that already felt too sensitive. Cate’s knees tightened around your hips where she straddled you, breath catching as you found the lace at the top of her thighs.

Cate murmured your name.

Your grip tightened. “Don’t say my name like that while you’re sitting on my dick.”

Cate went still for half a breath.

Then she shifted.

It was small. Almost nothing. A delicate roll of her hips that dragged her over the hard length straining against your jeans. Both of you went silent. Your hands flexed on Cate’s thighs, fingers digging into flesh.

Cate’s breath hitched. “You’re hard.”

“I’m aware.”

“Already.”

“You climbed into my lap in a sundress. It’s not a character flaw, it’s math.”

Cate laughed softly and did it again, slower, grinding down with enough pressure to make your head fall back against the seat. The car smelled like old leather and sun-bleached vinyl. The air inside was hotter than the bay, trapped and intimate, Cate’s perfume mixing with dust and gasoline until everything felt dizzy and illicit.

“Cate,” you warned, but you sounded wrecked.

Cate leaned down, lips at your ear. “You told me I could take control this time.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. “I’d say anything with you in my lap.”

“You meant it.”

“Unfortunately.”

Cate sat back enough to look at you. There was something pleased in her face, but under it, a careful question. “Do you still?”

Your hands eased where they held her, thumbs stroking once over her waist before you seemed to realize you were doing it. Your voice dropped. “Yeah.”

The word landed heavy. Simple. No performance to hide behind.

Cate’s expression flickered. For one second, just one, her confidence wavered into something soft and almost startled, as if you agreeing plainly had hit harder than all the filth before it. Then she bent and kissed you again, slower, deeper, claiming gratitude without having to say it.

You let her. Let Cate’s mouth take yours apart. Let Cate press you back into the car, let her fingers card through your hair, let the warm weight of Cate’s body pin you there so completely that there was nowhere for either of you to pretend distance still existed.

When your hands slid higher under her dress again, Cate shivered. Your fingers slipped beneath the edge of her panties and found her already slick.

Your expression changed.

“You’re so wet,” you said, unable to stop yourself, voice huskier now. “All this because you thought you might get me alone?”

Cate’s breath caught as you touched her properly, fingers sliding through heat and then pressing in just enough to make her hips lift. “I knew I would.”

“Oh, did you?”

“Dad’s predictable.” Cate’s hands tightened in your hair, her composure thinning fast as you curled your fingers and found the angle that made her whole body tense. “Caleb’s even easier.”

You stilled just enough to stare at her.

Cate bit down on her lip, trying to look innocent while your hand remained under her dress. She failed spectacularly.

Your eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Cate.”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Fine. I might have mentioned that someone outside the campus gym was complaining about needing a tow.”

You stared at her.

Cate’s mouth twitched, breathless and pleased with herself. “Caleb likes rescue missions. And Dad likes proving he can fix anything with an engine and a bad attitude.”

“You engineered a fake emergency?”

“I never said it was fake.” Cate tried to lift her chin, but your fingers shifted and ruined most of the effect.

“You manipulative little menace.”

“You’re welcome.”

You withdrew your hand, and Cate made an outraged sound that nearly made her laugh.

Before Cate could demand anything, you caught her by the hips and shifted her higher in your lap, using the cramped seat and the open driver’s side door to make room where there wasn’t any. The skirt of Cate’s dress rode up around her waist, pale lace bared beneath it, darkened at the center and pulled crooked by your hand.

Cate’s hand slid between your bodies, palm pressing over the hard shape of you through the denim. Your breath caught, hips twitching up despite yourself.

Cate’s smile deepened. “Is this my reward for setting everything up so nicely?”

You looked down at Cate’s hand, then back up at her face, jaw tight and eyes dark enough to make Cate’s pulse jump.

“No.” You hooked your fingers into Cate’s underwear and tugged them down carefully, working them over one thigh, then the other, awkward in the tight space but determined enough to make Cate’s pulse trip. “This is me making an informed series of terrible decisions.”

Cate lifted her hips for you, obedient only because it got her what she wanted. The lace came free after a bit of fumbling, and you shoved it into the pocket of your jeans without thinking.

Cate’s lips curled. “Planning to give those back?”

“Not sure yet.”

“That seems unethical.”

“So is sabotaging your father’s schedule so you can seduce his employee.”

“I didn’t sabotage.” Cate leaned in until her mouth brushed yours. “I facilitated an opportunity.”

Then Cate reached for the front of your jeans.

You grabbed her wrist. “The upholstery.”

Cate blinked at you.

Your face was flushed, mouth swollen, eyes dark. “I’m serious.”

“You’re thinking about upholstery right now?”

“I’m trying to prevent another forensic incident.”

Cate’s lips twitched. “Incident feels dramatic.”

“We’re developing a pattern.”

“That sounds intimate.”

“Sounds expensive.” You glanced toward the dash, then the cracked black seat beneath your bodies. “This is a customer’s car.”

Cate looked around, considering, then reached behind you and plucked an old shop towel from the passenger seat. “There.”

You stared. “You can’t just put a towel down and call it morally solved.”

“Watch me.”

“Cate.”

She laid the towel over your lap with maddening ceremony, smoothing it once over the bulge in your jeans. The touch was light enough to torture. Your hips jerked.

Cate’s eyes lifted. “See? Practical.”

“You are a demon in lip gloss.”

Cate unbuttoned your jeans.

The sound of the zipper inside the hush of the car was obscenely loud. You looked toward the office, panic flashing across your face. Cate caught your chin and turned you back.

“No one’s coming,” Cate said.

“If this goes well, we both are,” you muttered.

Cate’s mouth parted with a laugh, then curved. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m noticing the empty office, the missing truck, and your suspiciously good timing.” Your eyes narrowed. “You really did plan this.”

“I always come prepared.”

Your mouth opened, ready to let another joke loose.

Cate put a finger against your lips. “Don’t.”

Your lips moved against her fingertip anyway. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say I respect preparedness.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Your eyes flicked down, then back up, bright with the kind of grin you were barely holding in. “I respect follow-through too.”

Cate stared at you for half a second, then laughed under her breath despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

Her hand slipped into your open jeans, under the waistband of your boxers, and whatever smug little follow-up you’d been building toward collapsed into a low, broken sound. Your cock was hot and heavy in Cate’s hand, already slick at the tip, trapped against your stomach until Cate freed you carefully. Your head tipped back against the seatback at an awkward angle, throat exposed, tendons standing out.

Cate stroked you slowly, looking down with undisguised fascination as she freed you fully from your jeans. Your cock settled against your stomach, flushed at the head and already slick.

“I thought about this, too,” Cate confessed, voice soft and indecent.

Your eyes opened, dark and unfocused. “Did you?”

“In my bed. In the shower.” She drew her thumb over the leaking head, collecting precum, and your eyes shut again for one dangerous second. “In my car outside a coffee shop about twenty minutes ago.”

You groaned. “Tell me you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You touch yourself thinking about me?”

Cate’s smile went languid. “I didn’t cum. Thought I should save something for you.”

You made a sound like something inside you had just torn loose.

Cate looked down between you.

The sight hit Cate harder the second time, maybe because she now knew what you looked like when you lost control. You bare in her hand, thick and flushed, obscene and perfect against grease-stained denim and the fabric of Cate’s dress. There was something deeply unfair about how much you fit every kind of want Cate had ever been told to bury. Rough hands, sharp mouth, a body that looked built to work and fight and hold and—most importantly—fuck. A body that, under Cate’s touch, went breathless and obedient in a way that made Cate feel powerful enough to glow.

“You’re so pretty,” Cate said before she could stop herself.

Your laugh came out ragged. “I’m covered in grease.”

“I know.”

“That’s pretty?”

Cate stroked you once, slow from base to tip, watching more precum bead at the head. Your stomach jumped under your tank. “Part of it.”

“Fuck,” you whispered.

Cate’s thighs tightened around you. The sound of that word in your mouth, low and scraped raw, made her feel like someone had lit a match inside her ribs. She gathered her dress higher, exposing her thighs and the slick evidence of exactly how much the grinding had begun to ruin her. Your eyes dropped immediately, helpless.

“You’re staring,” Cate said.

Your tongue moved against your lower lip. “Yeah. I’m suffering.”

“Good.”

“That is such a rich girl thing to say.”

Cate smiled, gathered her dress even higher, and shifted forward until the heat of her pressed against you through open denim and the last scraps of restraint you were both running out of reasons to respect. Your hands snapped to her hips, holding her there.

You grinned despite the ache between your legs. “You think you’ve got me figured out already?”

“I think you’re trying to act cruel while rubbing your cock against me like you can’t stand not being inside.”

The grin vanished.

Cate saw it and brightened with victory.

“You’re such a little shit,” you said, breathless.

“And you’re still not inside me.”

“Wait.” Your voice went sharp enough that Cate stilled instantly. Cate froze, one hand braced on the seat, her body hovering over your lap. The shift was immediate. Teasing gone, eyes searching. You swallowed hard, gaze flicking up to hers. “I mean, not wait wait. Just…” You grimaced, breath still uneven. “I don’t have a condom.”

Cate blinked.

Your jaw tightened. “What?”

“You don’t?”

“I didn’t exactly pack for sex at my job,” you said, voice low and strained. “Because I’m normal.”

Cate stared at you for half a second, then gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “After what happened the last time I was here, that feels less normal and more overly optimistic.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Cate.”

“What?” Cate reached blindly toward the passenger seat for her purse, one knee pressing harder into the leather as she shifted. The movement brought her closer by accident or, knowing Cate, by theater. The low neckline of her dress dipped, her breasts looming dangerously close to your face as she stretched across you.

You went very still.

Cate glanced down at you. “You thought I came all the way down here in this dress with nothing but good intentions and iced coffee?”

“I was hoping to preserve one illusion,” you said, though it came out strangled.

“Relax.” Cate dug through the small leather bag with infuriating calm, pushing aside lip gloss, sunglasses, a compact, her keys. Then she pulled out a foil packet between two manicured fingers and held it up like evidence. “Didn’t I tell you? I always come prepared.”

Cate’s smile lingered as she shifted back just enough to give herself room, the torn wrapper crinkling between her fingers. The joke left your face when Cate reached for you again. Not completely, not enough to erase the crooked edge of your mouth, but enough that your breath changed, hitching as Cate wrapped her fingers around your cock and stroked once, slow, before fitting the condom over the head.

Your hands flexed uselessly on Cate’s thighs. “Jesus.”

“Hold still,” Cate murmured, though her own voice had gone thinner than she meant it to.

“I am holding still.”

“You’re twitching.”

“You’re rolling a condom onto me in a Camaro.”

Cate’s lashes dipped, her smile turning private as she smoothed the latex down with careful fingers, feeling you pulse hot and hard through it. “And you’re being a very good girl while I do it.”

You made a rough, disbelieving sound that collapsed when Cate gave you one last firm stroke, checking the fit with a concentration that made the air feel even hotter. Only then did Cate rise carefully on her knees, bracing one hand on the seat back, the other still wrapped around you. The towel bunched between you. The car gave a faint groan, leather creaking. Your hands slid up under the hem of Cate’s dress to hold her bare hips, and the heat of your palms made Cate’s concentration fracture.

The first press of your cock against her entrance made you both go still.

Cate lowered slowly, jaw going slack as the head pushed into her. The stretch was immediate, bright, almost too much after days of remembering the first time in flashes: your mouth, your fingers, the heavy ache of being opened around you. You made a sound like you’d been punched in the gut, hands tightening hard enough on Cate’s hips that she knew she’d have bruises come morning.

“Easy,” you rasped, though you looked like you were saying it to yourself. “Fuck, Cate, easy.”

Cate’s lashes fluttered. “I’m trying.”

“I know. I know, baby.” Your voice changed, all the sharp edges melting into something rough and steady. “Take your time.”

That didn’t help. That made it worse, actually. Made Cate ache with something that wasn’t strictly physical, because your hands were dirty and trembling, but careful. Because you looked wrecked already and still cared more about whether Cate was in pain.

Cate sank another inch, then another, the stretch filling her until she had to stop, forehead dropping to yours. Your breath tangled. Sweat slid down your temple. Cate could feel every tremor in her thighs, every pulse of you inside her.

“You okay?” You asked, voice tight.

Cate nodded, then shook her head, then laughed once because neither answer was right. “You’re big.”

Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “Yeah, we covered that during the first felony.”

Cate laughed again, softer, and the movement made both of you gasp. Your eyes squeezed shut. Cate steadied herself with one hand on the seat, then lowered the rest of the way until she was seated fully in your lap, you buried inside her, the towel already useless between them.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The garage breathed around you. Radio static. Fan rattle. Distant traffic. The occasional clink from the office. The world had not stopped, which felt rude, because Cate was fairly sure hers had reorganized completely around the pressure inside her.

You opened your eyes.

Your gaze was unfocused at first, then sharpened on Cate’s face. “You look…” You swallowed. “Fuck.”

Cate smiled faintly. “Articulate.”

“I’m using all available processing power not to cum in this customer’s car.”

Cate clenched around you on purpose.

Your head snapped back. “Fuck. You’re evil.”

Your hands tightened on Cate’s hips, holding her still for one more breath before you shifted underneath her. Not hard. Not yet. Just a careful upward roll that made Cate’s fingers dig into your shoulders and her mouth fall open around a sound she didn’t quite let out.

You found the rhythm slowly at first, careful in spite of the recklessness of everything around you two. You wanted to feel Cate adjust, wanted to map what made her tighten, what made her eyes squeeze closed, what made her hand clutch at your arm as if it were the only solid thing in the room.

“You can move more,” Cate whispered, breath breaking at the end when you thrust up again. “I’m not delicate.”

Your gaze flicked to hers. “Never thought you were.”

“Then fuck me like it.”

The plea was perfectly Cate, dressed as a challenge so she didn’t have to admit how badly she wanted to be given something. You felt the understanding click into place, tender beneath the rush of lust.

Your grip shifted, one hand spreading against Cate’s lower back, the other firm on her hip. “Yeah?” you murmured. “That what you want?”

Cate’s chin lifted, stubborn even as her thighs trembled around yours. “Yes.”

Then you moved harder.

Cate slid both hands into your hair and curled her fingers tight, using the grip to steady herself as she met your rhythm.

Slow at first, because she had to learn the angle. One knee pressed into the worn leather beside your hip, the other braced awkwardly near the edge of the seat, the towel bunching between them with every careful shift. Your jeans were peeled open but not enough, rough denim scraping the inside of Cate’s thighs, and the center console crowded your shoulder so tightly that Cate had to tilt herself just right to take you deeper. None of it mattered. Or all of it mattered, each discomfort sharpening the pleasure until there was no clean line between wanting and taking and the hard physical reality of doing this somewhere you absolutely shouldn’t.

You let her set the pace. More than let her. You held Cate’s hips and followed, jaw clenched, breathing through each downward roll like it cost you something. Her muscles shifted under sweat and sunlight when your forearms flexed. Your eyes stayed fixated on Cate’s face, hungry and watchful, tracking every small change, every blink, every breath.

Cate rode you with increasing confidence, slow giving way to deep, deliberate rolls of her hips. Each one dragged you through her in a way that made her fingertips go numb. She’d expected the thrill, the danger, the smug satisfaction of getting you to cave. She hadn’t expected how intimate it would feel to watch you try to survive being wanted.

“Thought you said no,” Cate breathed.

Your laugh broke apart into a groan. “I did.”

“You’re not very good at it.”

“No,” you panted, grip tightening. “Apparently not with you.”

Pleasure curled through Cate’s belly, hot and greedy. She leaned down and kissed you hard, swallowing the next sound out of you. Your hands slid from her hips to her ass, bunching her dress higher, helping her move now. Not taking over, not yet, just guiding when Cate’s rhythm faltered, lifting her enough to make the next drop hit deeper.

Cate gasped into your mouth. “Fuck.”

“There it is,” you murmured. “All that attitude had to run out sometime.”

Cate bit your lip in retaliation.

You groaned. “Okay. Deserved.”

Cate sat back enough to look at you and then changed the angle. Her next downward roll made both of you choke on a sound. The pressure hit deep and bright, dragging a shudder out of Cate’s whole body.

“There?” You asked immediately, voice strained.

Cate nodded, breathless.

Your expression went focused, predatory through the haze. Your hands found the angle again and helped her keep it, guiding Cate down in a rhythm that punched pleasure up through her spine. Cate’s control frayed fast. She still rode you, still set the pace, but you were there under her, steadying, calibrating, learning her too quickly.

“God,” Cate whispered. “You’re so—”

“What?” You rasped, chest burning. “Say it.”

Cate’s breath hitched. She hadn’t known what she’d meant to say until you asked for it. “Good,” she managed. “You’re so good.”

Your face changed.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a fracture, a split-second crack in the filthy confidence where something softer flared, startled and vulnerable. Cate felt it more than saw it, the way your whole body responded, your grip tightening, your cock twitching inside her.

“That’s cheating,” you said roughly.

Cate smiled, dazed. “Praise?”

“From you?” Your laugh was almost a gasp. “Yeah.”

Cate bent and pressed her mouth to your jaw. “Good,” she whispered there too, because now she knew. “You’re good.”

“Fuck.” Your hips jerked upward, your first real loss of control, and Cate cried out, hand slapping against the roof of the car. “Sorry, shit, sorry.”

“No.” Cate grabbed your face and made you look at her. “Do it again.”

Your pupils blew wide.

“Spoiled,” you breathed, but there was awe in it, hunger and surrender tangled tight.

Cate lowered herself further and you thrust up to meet her.

The sound that came out of Cate was too loud. Your hand flew to the back of her neck, dragging her into a kiss to muffle the next one. It turned messy, all teeth and breath and saliva. Cate’s hips moved faster now, control turning fluid, instinctive. The car rocked faintly beneath your bodies, springs creaking, the seat complaining in little rhythmic sighs.

Your body was a live wire under her. Every thrust up was restrained but not gentle, careful only because you had to be, because the world was still outside the windshield and Eric could theoretically come back early with Caleb and the wrath of God in a plastic bag. The risk didn’t cool anything. It sharpened it until Cate felt skinned alive by sensation.

You slid her hand between your bodies, fingers finding Cate’s clit where your cock stretched her open. Cate’s cry rose immediately, too sharp for the open bay, and you covered it with your mouth, swallowing the sound while rubbing firm circles in time with each upward thrust.

“Oh my God,” Cate whimpered against your lips. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop, please.”

“Not stopping.” You kissed her jaw, then the damp hollow below her ear, your voice rough enough to scrape. “You feel too fucking good. Got me risking my whole life for this pretty cunt.”

Cate’s legs tightened around her. “It’s worth it.”

“Cocky girl.”

“You’re the one inside me.”

“Yeah.” You gave one hard, grinding thrust and held there, watching Cate’s eyes flutter. “I am.”

Cate clutched at the back of your neck, drawing you closer until your noses brushed, her expression suddenly unguarded in the haze of pleasure. “I knew you’d cave.”

You laughed into her mouth. “Should I be offended?”

“No.” Cate’s voice softened, fragile only at the edges. “I wanted you to.”

That nearly ruined you more completely than any filth Cate could have said. Your hand slowed for half a heartbeat, attention caught by the nakedness of it. Cate wanted you, yes, but she’d also wanted to be wanted enough to override reason, caution, every sensible argument. She’d come to the garage carrying coffee and manipulation in her pocket because she needed proof you hadn’t written your first encounter off as an accident.

You stared at her, breath ragged, thumb still pressed against her clit. “Cate.”

Cate swallowed, eyes flicking over your face. “Don’t make me regret saying that.”

Your chest tightened. The words hit harder than they should have, harder than anything had a right to hit while you were half-trapped in the driver’s seat of a customer’s Camaro with your jeans open and your boss’s daughter in your lap. But there it was anyway, soft and dangerous under all the heat.

“I won’t,” you said, and then moved again, harder, because Cate had asked for stupid and you, apparently, had always been better at stupid than survival.

You fucked Cate harder, the careful rhythm going rough at the edges, every upward thrust driving deep into the wet, tight clutch of her. Cate held on, nails dragging down your chest, hips dropping eagerly to meet you. She was past teasing now, past theatricality, making broken, stifled sounds against your mouth and shoulder as the pressure rose through her.

“You like this,” you murmured, voice ragged. “Using me in your dad’s shop. Climbing on top of me like you own the place.”

“I do,” Cate gasped.

You laughed, dark and breathless. “Yeah, princess, I know.”

Cate clenched hard around you.

Your laugh died. “Fuck.”

The nickname hit Cate somewhere molten. She rode you harder, chasing the deep grind and the pressure against her clit where your bodies met, the drag of denim and cotton and the damp heat between. Your hands shifted under her dress, one gripping her ass, the other sliding around to press at the small of her back, keeping her close.

Cate’s orgasm built differently this time. Not sudden, not sparked by panic, but climbing and climbing with every roll of her hips, every helpless sound you failed to swallow, every moment of eye contact that felt too naked for two people committing something indecent in a Camaro. It made her chest ache. Made her want to laugh or cry or sink her teeth into your shoulder.

You saw it coming before Cate did.

“There,” you whispered. “That’s it. Keep going. Don’t stop.”

Cate’s thighs burned. Her knees ached against the seat. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, made the thin dress cling to her spine. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Her body chased what you promised, and you watched her like every second of it mattered.

“Want you to cum on me,” you said, rough and low. “Want to feel it.”

Cate whimpered.

“Yeah?” Your thumb found her clit again beneath the bunched fabric of her dress, circling with maddening precision. “Come on, baby. You got what you came here for. Take it.”

That broke her.

Cate came with a sharp, bitten cry, folding forward against you as pleasure snapped through her. Her body clenched tight around your cock, hips stuttering, rhythm falling apart. You groaned like it hurt, arm wrapping hard around her waist to keep her steady through it.

For a few seconds Cate couldn’t think. Couldn’t perform. Couldn’t be clever or composed or careful. She was just heat and pulse and your name broken against the side of your neck.

You held her through the whole thing.

And then you started to lose it.

Cate felt the shift underneath her, the tight tremor in your thighs, the way your breath went ragged and shallow. Your hand left Cate’s clit and grabbed at the seat beside you, fingers digging into old leather. Your rhythm broke rougher, every upward thrust driving deep into the wet, tight clutch of Cate’s body as the last waves of her orgasm rolled through her.

Cate convulsed around you again with a cry she couldn’t fully smother. Her back arched, dress pulling tight over her chest as her thighs locked around your hips. The first clench nearly tore your orgasm out of you by force, the second left you breathing in helpless, guttural sounds against Cate’s hair.

You kept moving through it, shorter thrusts now, letting Cate ride the aftershocks while you fought not to spill without asking. Cate’s body shook in your lap, softening and tightening in waves.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “Cate, I’m close.”

Cate lifted her head, dazed, hair stuck to her cheek. “Don’t pull out.”

Your eyes snapped to hers. “What?”

“Want you inside me when you cum.”

The words were soft but clear, reckless as a match dropped into gasoline, even with the latex between you. Maybe because of it. Maybe because the barrier made the request feel less dangerous and somehow more intimate.

Your face twisted. “Jesus Christ.”

Cate rocked down again, slow and cruel, overstimulation sparkling at the edges. “Please.”

Your grip on her waist tightened. “You can’t say please like that. It’s not fair.”

Cate brushed sweaty curls off your forehead, thumb dragging through the grease smudge there. “Cum for me,” she whispered.

You made a ruined sound and thrust up hard enough that Cate had to grab at the headrest to steady herself. The rhythm went frantic for three strokes, maybe four, and then you came with a hoarse groan buried against Cate’s mouth. Heat pulled violently through you, your cock pulsing deep inside Cate as your hands held Cate’s hips pressed tight to your lap. Cate shuddered around you, arms tightening around your shoulders as if she could feel every release through the thin barrier of latex, as if she wanted to keep all of it exactly where you gave it to her.

For several seconds the garage contracted into breath and sweat and the slick, intimate pressure of your bodies still joined. The radio murmured some chorus you couldn’t have identified at gunpoint. The fan turned its useless head toward you, stirring the damp ends of Cate’s hair where they clung to her cheek. The Camaro’s old leather creaked beneath you, a quiet complaint neither of you had the decency to heed.

You stayed slumped in the driver’s seat, one arm locked around Cate’s waist, trying to retrieve your ability to think from wherever Cate had tossed it.

Then Cate gave a small, pleased sigh and stroked one hand lazily through your hair.

“That,” she murmured, “was a much better lunch break than I was expecting.”

You huffed, dazed and wrecked beneath her. “Pretty sure lunch breaks are legally supposed to involve less property damage.”

Cate smiled against your mouth. “You loved it.”

“I did,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

Then you shifted.

A slick warmth slipped between you, smearing down where your bodies were joined as Cate exhaled shakily. She became suddenly, horribly aware of the towel bunched uselessly to one side, your jeans open, the condom still on but doing absolutely nothing about the rest of the mess you’d made together. The seat beneath you was not nearly as protected as either of you’d pretended.

You lifted your head slowly.

Your eyes dropped to the mess.

Silence.

“Fuck,” you said, with flat despair. “We got cum on the upholstery.”

Cate blinked down at the seat, then back at you. “Technically, I don’t think all of that is cum.”

“That does nothing to comfort me.”

“It should. Some of it is just evidence.”

You stared at her.

Cate’s mouth twitched. “Chemistry?”

“Don’t laugh,” you warned.

Cate’s shoulders shook.

“Cate.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re visibly laughing.”

“I’m emotionally processing.”

You looked at the seat, then at Cate, then at the ceiling of the Camaro like divine intervention might descend through the headliner with a steam cleaner. “We really need to stop with the cumstains.”

That was it. Cate broke, laughter spilling out of her, bright and helpless, her face tucked into your neck to muffle it. You groaned, but the sound softened halfway through because Cate was still in your lap, still warm around you, still laughing because the world hadn’t caught you yet.

“This isn’t funny,” you muttered, though your hands had already slid up Cate’s back to hold her.

“It’s a little funny.”

You shifted slightly, and both of you sucked in a breath at the sensitivity. Cate stilled, suddenly softer, fingertips brushing the damp hair at your temple. “We can clean it.”

“Can we?” You asked. “Because I know engines. I don’t know how to remove my own bad decisions from vintage leather.”

Cate grinned. “You’re a mechanic. Improvise.”

“I hate that I’m attracted to you.”

“Do you?”

You stared at her for a long second, then sighed dramatically through your nose. “No.”

The admission landed gently this time. No joke sharp enough to cut it. No immediate retreat. Cate’s smile dimmed into something smaller, warmer. She touched your cheek with the back of her fingers, tracing the grease she’d smeared earlier.

You started to answer, but the office phone rang.

Both of you froze.

It shrilled once, twice, violently ordinary in the overheated shop.

Cate’s eyes widened. You, still buried inside her in the driver’s seat of a customer’s Camaro, felt every drop of blood in your body abandon pleasure and report directly for panic duty.

The answering machine clicked on in the front office.

“Dunlap Motor Works,” Eric’s recorded voice crackled through the shop, tinny and cheerful. “Leave a message and we’ll call you back.”

The beep came.

Then Eric’s real voice followed, somehow even worse. “Stark, you there? Tow was a bust. Kid got it started before we even made it across town, so Caleb and I are heading back. Ten minutes, maybe less. Need you to clear space by bay two before we pull in.”

Cate pressed her lips together.

You stared at her.

For one long, airless second, neither of you moved.

Reality reentered like a brick through a stained-glass window.

Your eyes went wide. “Off. You need to get off.”

Cate nodded quickly, though her body protested the idea with a deep, delicious ache. She lifted herself carefully, biting her lip at the slow slide of you out of her. Your hands stayed at her hips, helping, steadying, even while panic began rebuilding itself in the room.

The second Cate was clear, more warmth slipped down her inner thigh.

You saw it and your brain visibly short-circuited. “Jesus.”

Cate grabbed the towel from your lap and shoved it between her thighs. “Stop looking.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“I was doing great before you weaponized cotton.”

Cate climbed awkwardly out of the Camaro, smoothing her dress down with one hand and holding the towel discreetly with the other. You removed the condom in a frantic little blur, tied it off, then tucked yourself away with fumbling hands, wincing as oversensitivity and panic performed a duet on your nervous system. You wrapped the condom in another shop towel and buried it in the trash under the workbench before grabbing a clean towel from the floorboard and staring at the stain on the seat like it had personally betrayed you.

Cate peered down. “It’s not that bad.”

You looked up at her.

“Okay, it is,” Cate amended. “But in a manageable way.”

“Great. Put that on my tombstone.”

The next several minutes vanished into frantic, silent triage: towel, stain, trash, jeans, dress, breath. Every sound from the street made your shoulders jerk. Every second made Cate’s smile wobble closer to panic.

You’d just managed to scrub the worst of the evidence from the seat when your hand brushed the pocket of your jeans and found lace.

You froze.

Cate, still blotting at her mouth with the least filthy corner of a rag, noticed immediately. “What?” 

Very slowly, Cate’s gaze dropped to your pocket.

Her mouth curved. “Were you planning to return my property before my father walks in?”

Your jaw flexed. For one terrible second, you looked like you might actually give them back. Then Caleb laughed somewhere outside, loud enough to slice straight through the bay, and you shoved the lace deeper into your pocket with the grim resolve of a woman choosing crime under pressure.

“Later,” you muttered.

Cate’s smile went dangerous and bright. “Promise?”

You gave her a look that could have stripped paint. “Go stand by the workbench.”

The bell over the front door jingled again.

Your face went blank with horror.

Cate’s mouth opened.

Cate Dunlap wasn’t the kind of girl who obsessed over underwear.

Well. Not usually.

She liked her lingerie drawer the same way she liked her emotions—organized, expensive, and behind a lock. Satin for when she wanted to feel dangerous. Lace when she was feeling cruel. And cotton? Please. She isn’t twelve.

But this pair—this ridiculous, barely-there, cherry-blush silk thong with embroidered hearts and a teeny, tiny bow at the front—this one was different. This one had a purpose.

A mission, if you will.

It was the kind of lingerie that didn’t scream fuck me. It whispered date me. Worship me. Maybe take me to brunch sometime and walk me to class.

Anyway. The thong.

Cate bought it on a Tuesday after a particularly chaotic orgasm left her trembling against the headboard with your hand still knotted in her hair and her heart doing its best impression of a hummingbird. You’d whispered something after. Not sweet—not exactly. But soft. Reverent. Something like, “You always sound so pretty when you come.”

And Cate—Cate had gone completely, disgustingly feral.

Hence: the thong.

She’d paired it with a matching bra, delicate and sheer, designed more for unraveling than actual support. She even wore a dress that night—backless, halter-tied, black and devastating. It wasn’t a date. Of course not. You didn’t do dates. Just flirty texts and shared vices and Cate half-draped across your bed until dawn, pretending her perfume didn’t cling to the sheets for days.

Still. Hope was a slippery thing.

When you opened the door that night, hair still damp from a shower, t-shirt hanging off your shoulder, Cate’s whole stupid heart curled into itself like a ribbon.

She said, “Hi.”

You blinked at her. Said, “Jesus Christ.”

So far, so good.

“Come in,” you added, stepping aside. Cate did, trailing her fingers over the wall just because she knew you watched everything. Every movement. Every breath. That was the thing about you—stillness like a trap, quiet like a scream.

Cate wasn’t used to being the more obvious one. She didn’t like it.

You followed her into your dorm, tossed your phone onto the couch, and muttered, “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

Cate smiled. “Only if you’re lucky.”

She waited. Waited for the look. For your eyes to dip—linger. For a comment. A hand on her waist, tugging her closer with that low, gravel-slick voice saying something filthy, something worshipful.

Nothing.

Cate unzipped her dress herself.

You were not okay.

You’d known a lot of versions of Cate Dunlap by now. Sharp Cate. Teasing Cate. Soft, sleepy, vulnerable Cate who clung to you in the middle of the night like she didn’t mean to. But tonight? This was a new kind of menace.

And the dress—God, the fucking dress—was bad enough. But then she had taken it off, just stepped out of it like sin incarnate, and you had almost whimpered.

You noticed the lingerie immediately. Of course you did. You weren't blind.

But it was new. Cate had never worn this before. Not for you, at least.

And it wasn’t slutty, not really. It wasn’t the kind of thing someone wore just to get railed. It was the kind of thing that meant something. Soft pink. Girlish. Stupidly delicate.

Your brain short-circuited.

Which—okay. Cool. Fine. No pressure. Just pretend you didn’t notice the tiny fucking bow. That was totally normal.

Cate was watching you now. Expectant. A flicker of something in her eyes, like she was waiting for—

No. You couldn’t say it. Couldn’t let on that you had been keeping track. That you knew every pair Cate had ever worn around you, whether they’d stayed on for long or not. That you’d fantasized about this—this exact look, this exact softness—for weeks.

Instead, you cleared your throat and asked, “Do you want the lights off?”

Cate’s smile faltered for a second. “Whatever you want.”

Fuck.

You had sex. Of course you did. Cate came twice. You pulled her apart like you were born to do it. Like you knew her body better than your own goddamn reflection. But through it all, Cate couldn’t stop thinking: she didn’t notice.

She didn’t notice the hearts. Or the bow. Or the way Cate had smoothed lotion over her thighs for an extra ten minutes just in case your hands wandered there first.

You didn’t notice because you didn’t care.

And fuck, that shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t.

You weren’t dating.

Cate rolled over afterward, tugging the sheets higher even though she wasn’t cold. Her back was to you. Always was. Easier that way.

“You okay?” you murmured.

Cate nodded into the pillow. “Mhm. Just tired.”

There was a pause. Then a soft shuffle of movement. You pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. Gentle. Hesitant.

Cate nearly cried.

You stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes after Cate fell asleep.

You hadn’t meant to ruin it.

You just—panicked.

The new underwear was…it was a lot. A message, maybe. A test?

You didn’t want to get it wrong.

Because if Cate was trying to say something—if she wanted more—then God, you wanted to meet her there. Wanted to take her on a real date, hold her hand in public, fall asleep tangled up without having to pretend it didn’t mean anything in the morning.

But what if it wasn’t that?

What if it was just lingerie?

What if pointing it out made Cate retreat? What if she laughed?

You turned your head, watching Cate’s spine rise and fall with every breath. She looked soft in the moonlight. Breakable. Her hair a mess across the pillow, lips parted in sleep.

You could say something tomorrow. Maybe.

If you’re brave enough.

Cate left in the morning without waking you.

She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled on her dress slowly, and tried not to look at the bra and thong clutched in her fist. The lace had gone slightly wrinkled. The bow was a little crooked.

She’d thought she could seduce clarity out of you. That maybe if she looked desirable enough, obvious enough, you would finally say what you were both thinking.

Instead, all she got was a vague goodnight kiss and a confusing tangle of limbs under the covers that left her chest aching worse than her thighs.

She stuffed the lingerie to the bottom of her purse and left the dorm without a word.

You knew something was wrong the second you woke up alone.

The sheets beside you were cold.

Cate always stayed for breakfast. Or at least long enough to pretend she wasn’t staying. She’d steal one of your t-shirts, sip coffee with her legs curled up on the couch, pretend she didn’t care that her lipstick was still on your mouth.

Always.

Until now.

You sat up, scrubbing a hand over your face, throat already tight with the worst kind of knowing. The quiet kind. The kind that didn’t shout or slam doors. The kind that crawled under your ribs and stayed there.

Your phone buzzed once.

[Cate]: thanks for last night. see you around. xx

See you around.

Not “breakfast?” Not “come over tomorrow?” Not even the casual “let me know when you’re free” that had started to sound suspiciously like dating even though you’d never said the word.

You stared at the message until it blurred. Your chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, slow and silent and stupid.

See you around.

Fuck.

By 3 p.m., you’d gone through three cups of coffee, one panic attack in the gym showers, and two half-drafted texts you couldn’t bring yourself to send.

One of them read:

hey, did i do something?

The other was:

i noticed you left early. you okay?

Neither felt right. Too much. Not enough.

Instead, you sent:

can we talk?

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Then forty-five.

Cate was always fast at texting back. Always.

You started pacing your room, hands on your hips, heart in your throat. You didn’t even have a name for what you were. Didn’t have a label for this thing—this weird, hot, messy thing where Cate let you in but only halfway. Where you pretended not to care when you left with lipstick on your neck and perfume still clinging to your skin.

But you cared. God, you fucking cared.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the night before. The new lingerie. The silence. The way Cate had turned away from you in bed like it meant nothing.

But it had meant something. It had to.

Didn’t it?

Your phone buzzed again.

[Cate]: I guess. If you want to.

That shouldn’t have hurt. It did anyway.

Cate hadn’t been crying when you got there. Not at first.

She looked fine. Polished, even. Ponytail. Lip gloss. Wearing one of those expensive pajama sets that made her look like a 1950s housewife in therapy.

But you knew her too well now. Knew that the glossier Cate looked, the more fucked-up she probably felt.

You stood awkwardly in the doorway. “Hi.”

Cate nodded, stepping aside to let you in. She didn’t touch you. Didn’t smile.

You swallowed. “Did I do something?”

Cate blinked. “What?”

“I just—” You ran a hand through your hair. “You left before I woke up. And you never do that. And then you texted me like we were strangers, and now you’re—”

“I’m what?”

You exhaled, slow and shaky. “Distant.”

Cate laughed once, brittle and small. “You noticed?”

“Of course I noticed.”

You stared at each other for a second. Cate’s arms were folded tightly over her chest, like she was holding herself together through sheer willpower. You’d never wanted to touch someone so badly. Not even to kiss her. Just—to hold her. To fix it.

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked quietly. “If I did, I’m sorry. I mean that.”

Cate’s expression cracked like glass.

“You didn’t say anything,” she whispered.

“What?”

“About the lingerie,” Cate said. “It was new. I wore it on purpose. I—I picked it out for you. And you didn’t even notice.”

Your heart stopped.

“Cate,” you said, stepping closer. “I noticed. I noticed the second you took off your dress.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Her voice broke on the last word.

“Because I thought I’d make it weird. I thought—God, I thought maybe it didn’t mean what I wanted it to mean. And if I said something and I was wrong, then I’d lose you. Or you’d laugh. Or worse—you’d look at me like I was pathetic.”

Cate’s eyes filled so fast it made you ache.

“You’re not pathetic,” she said, voice crumbling. “You’re just—brave in every way except this one.”

Your breath caught.

Cate wiped at her cheeks, frustrated. “I just wanted to know if you were thinking about me like that. If you wanted more. Because I do. I do, and I’m scared all the time that I want too much and you don’t want anything.”

“Cate—”

“I’m not good at this,” she went on. “I’m good at being hot and fuckable and mysterious. I’m not good at being chosen. Or loved. I’ve never been the person someone stays for.”

You didn’t mean to grab her. You just—moved.

You crossed the room and wrapped Cate in your arms, one hand in her hair, the other on her spine, pulling her in so tightly it felt like breathing again.

Cate melted.

“I notice everything about you,” you whispered into her temple. “I just didn’t know I was allowed to.”

Cate clung to her, trembling. “You are.”

You stood there for a long moment, forehead to forehead, breath shared in the hush between apologies.

Finally, Cate said, “So we’re both idiots.”

“Apparently.”

“Do you want to be idiots together?”

You smiled. “Only if we can make out about it.”

Cate laughed through her tears, then kissed you hard enough to make you both a little dizzy.

You woke up first.

That was rare. Cate was usually up before you—already dressed, already glossy, already pretending she hadn’t just spent the night curled against you like the world would end if you drifted apart. But not this morning.

This morning, Cate was soft and unguarded and still asleep, her lashes dark against her cheeks, mouth parted slightly as she breathed.

You watched her for a long time.

You didn’t mean to.

You just…couldn’t look away.

Cate looked young like this. Not in the helpless way—never that. Just quiet. Real. Her hand was resting on your stomach, fingers splayed like she was marking territory even in sleep. Her leg was draped over one of yours, blanket tangled between you.

Everything about it should’ve screamed we just fucked.

But you hadn’t.

You hadn’t even taken your clothes off.

Last night had been all crying and honesty and aching truth between tangled limbs, and then Cate had curled into your chest like a heartbeat and just…stayed.

You were still high from it.

Carefully, you slid your hand into Cate’s hair, combing through the strands, gentle as anything. Cate made a sleepy noise and burrowed closer.

“Mm. Hi,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You smiled. “Hey.”

Cate blinked up at her, squinting. “You stayed.”

“I live here,” you said, deadpan. Clearly joking.

Cate whacked her lightly in the stomach. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” your hand settled on her waist. “You didn’t run.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

You searched her face. “You really want this?”

Cate’s brows knit. “You think I’d cry like that for someone I didn’t want?”

You were quiet.

Cate softened. “I want to try,” she said. “Whatever this is. But I don’t want to rush it. I mean—I do, obviously, I want to throw you down and ruin your life.”

You made a strangled noise.

Cate smiled. “But maybe we should…pace ourselves. Start over, kind of. Try being around each other without always ending up naked.”

You blinked. “Like…a no-sex thing?”

Cate bit her lip. “For a little while. Two weeks?”

You stared at her.

Cate quickly added, “We can still make out. And hang out. And flirt. And sleep in the same bed. Just—no sex. Let it build.”

You were still staring.

Cate’s confidence wavered. “Too much?”

You groaned and flopped backward. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“But is it a yes?”

You looked at her, eyes bright. “Yeah. It’s a yes.”

Cate beamed. “Okay. Two weeks.”

Somehow—against all odds—they’d made it to day three.

Except today? Today Cate was wearing glasses.

She didn’t need them—you knew that. But she wore them anyway, because apparently God wanted you to suffer.

You were seated across from each other in the campus library, Cate pretending to read from a psychology textbook, you pretending not to stare at the way her mouth moved when she chewed the end of her pen.

Cate looked up suddenly. “You’re not reading.”

“You’re chewing.”

“I always chew.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s the problem.”

Cate grinned and crossed her legs slowly under the table. You made the mistake of glancing down.

You’d made out in three different hallways earlier. Cate had whispered something filthy in your ear right before you walked into the library and then immediately started acting innocent, like she didn’t make you want to combust.

You scribbled something on a notecard and slid it across the table.

You’re evil.

Cate wrote back.

You love it.

You bit your lip. Smiled. God, you really do.

Day seven and the pact was still very much intact.

The weather was perfect for a picnic. You brought snacks. Cate brought sunscreen and emotional damage.

You spread out a blanket under one of the big oak trees by the music building and just…talked.

Like you were normal. Like this was something people did.

You played music off your phone. Cate stole all the watermelon and fell asleep with her head in your lap halfway through a Fleetwood Mac song.

You stroked her hair, feeling like your chest was too small for her heart.

When Cate woke, blinking slowly, she looked up at you with that undone expression—soft, tired, safe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispered.

“Like what?”

Cate turned onto her back, cheek still pressed to your thigh. “Like I’m something you want.”

You swallowed. “Because you are.”

Cate didn’t say anything. But she reached for your hand and threaded your fingers together, holding tight.

Day eleven was largely uneventful. Until Marie’s monthly movie night.

Cate sat so close on the couch that you thought your skin might ignite.

Emma kept glancing between you like she knew. Jordan, sprawled in a beanbag, said nothing but raised an eyebrow every time Cate laughed too hard at one of your dumb jokes.

Cate didn’t care. She leaned into your side like she belonged there.

You wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

No one said a word, but Emma texted you later:

did y’all get married during midterms or what the fuck is going on

You sent back:

it’s complicated

It was the last night of the pact. Fourteen days. No sex.

You’d made it.

To celebrate, you met on the roof of your dorm building, both a little early, both pretending you hadn’t been counting down the minutes. Cate had on one of your sweatshirts—massive on her, sleeves covering her hands. Her lip gloss was peachy-pink. Her cheeks were flushed.

You were already in pain.

You didn’t talk much at first. Just stood close, watching the campus lights blink on below you.

Cate spoke first.

“Do you think we’re better now?”

You looked over. “Better?”

“At this. At…trying.”

You considered it. “Yeah. I do.”

Cate smiled, slow and shy. “Me too.”

You turned to face her fully. Your heart in your throat.

“Cate.”

Cate met your eyes.

“I know we made a pact,” you said. “I know we’re technically still in the window.”

Cate tilted her head. “Are you asking to break it?”

“No.” You swallowed. “I’m asking if I can take you on a real date tomorrow night.”

Cate stared at you.

Like really stared.

And then—

“You mean like…” Her voice broke. “Public? Food? Reservations?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Like that. Like I come to your door and knock and tell you you look beautiful and open the car door and take you somewhere nice where I don’t try to fuck you in the bathroom.”

Cate blinked very fast.

You stepped closer. “You don’t have to say yes. I just—I wanted you to know I want that. I want to be your person. Not just your fuck, not just your fling. Your real thing.”

Cate made a small noise, then launched herself into your arms.

“Is that a yes?” You whispered against her temple.

Cate nodded into your shoulder. “Yes. God, yes.”

You held her tighter.

And somewhere below you, the world kept turning. Lights blinked. Cars passed. Someone started playing guitar in a neighboring dorm.

But on the rooftop, you just stood there, wrapped in each other like gravity didn’t exist.

Cate was buzzing—half excitement, half nerves—as she got ready for the evening. She kept checking the clock, adjusting her dress, touching up her eyeliner because tonight could change the trajectory of their lives forever. No pressure, though.

There was a knock.

Cate froze mid-lipstick.

A knock. Not a text. Not a here or a let me in.

A knock.

She pressed a hand to her chest for a second, willing her heart not to punch its way out through her ribs, then grabbed her perfume bottle and misted twice—once at her neck, once at her wrist—and opened the door.

And nearly passed out.

You stood in the hallway in a perfectly tailored black suit. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat. A thin silver chain glinting above your collar. Your hair was styled in that slightly messy, I got ready in five minutes but still look criminally hot way. And in your hands—

A bouquet.

Of peonies. And ranunculus. And roses.

Cate’s favorite.

She didn’t even know you knew the word ranunculus.

“Oh my god,” Cate whispered.

You grinned, nervous. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Cate said, taking the flowers automatically. “You’re in a suit.”

“You’re in a dress.”

Cate looked down at herself—sleek black silk, open back, heels that made her legs look insane—and then back at you, shifting your weight like you were shy.

You. Shy.

Cate was in danger.

“You look…” you paused, exhaling. “Like trouble.”

“Good trouble?”

“The best kind.”

Cate hid a smile in the flowers. “You’re allergic to these.”

You shrugged. “Worth it.”

Cate’s face did something embarrassing.

“Ready?” you asked.

Cate nodded. “Just let me grab my purse.”

Luke’s car was clean. Suspiciously clean.

You opened the door for her like some kind of movie boyfriend, even waited until she was buckled before walking around to the driver’s side.

“You detailed this?”

“Marie made me. She said if you got in and saw crumbs, I’d never get to touch you again.”

Cate laughed. “Smart girl.”

You smiled, a little crooked. “I really want to impress you.”

“You already do.”

You’d even made a reservation in the city.

Cate hadn’t even known you could make reservations. She wasn’t even sure you knew how OpenTable worked. But here you were, being led to a corner booth in a warm, bustling Italian place lit by low chandeliers and candles in wine bottles.

Cate slid into the booth across from you, heels kicking gently against your boots under the table.

You glanced down at the table, then at her. “So.”

“So,” Cate said, chin propped in her hand.

“You’re not nervous at all, are you?”

“I’m always nervous,” Cate said. “I just hide it better.”

You grinned. “Fair.”

You ordered. Cate asked the waiter what wine he recommended and actually listened to the answer, which made you stare at her like she’d just recited poetry.

You talked about classes. About music. About a professor who definitely hated you and possibly had a crush on Cate. You shared bruschetta and Cate moaned a little too enthusiastically over the burrata, and you said, “Jesus, you’re gonna get us kicked out,” and Cate just smiled with tomato on her lip like she was doing it on purpose.

Halfway through the meal, you reached across the table and took her hand.

Just—held it.

No fanfare. No commentary.

Cate’s heart hiccuped.

She squeezed back.

Later, with the city humming around them and the night stretching wide and warm, you walked side by side through Central Park—closer now, changed in some quiet, permanent way.

You walked slowly, Cate’s heels clicking against the pavement while you carried a little paper bowl of overpriced lavender-lemon gelato. Cate had insisted on one scoop, one spoon, which had been cute until she started stealing the biggest bites and making eye contact while doing it.

You were red from the ears down.

You found a bench. Sat close. Arms touching.

Cate licked the spoon, slow. “So.”

“So,” you echoed.

“This was nice.”

“It was.”

“I had a good time.”

“I’m gonna cry if you don’t kiss me soon.”

Cate blinked. Then smiled. “Really?”

You gave her the smallest, softest look. “Cate, I’ve wanted to kiss you since we left the dorm. I’ve wanted to kiss you since you opened the door. Since the first time you walked into my life and insulted my shoes.”

“They were hideous.”

“They were beloved,” you said solemnly.

Cate set the spoon down in the empty bowl.

Then cupped your face with both hands.

And kissed you.

Not like the other kisses—hot and urgent and pressed against doors or tangled in bedsheets.

This one was slow. Certain. The kind of kiss that says, I want everything with you. I’ll wait. I’ll try.

Your hand came up to cradle her waist.

You stayed like that for a long time.

When you finally pulled back, Cate rested her forehead against yours.

“Okay,” she whispered. “So maybe this is real.”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. It is.”

Cate reached for your hand again, fingers weaving through yours.

“Wanna make out in the backseat of Luke’s car?”

You choked on air. “Cate.”

“I didn’t say more than make out.”

“You’re a menace.”

Cate batted her lashes. “But I’m your menace.”

You laughed. Loud and real and completely in love.

And when you walked back to the car, still hand in hand, you thought, I want this every Saturday. Every morning. Every life.

You slid into the backseat like you were stepping into something private—something soft and delicious. The front seats were pushed forward just enough so your knees met, pressing into each other’s. Cate’s heels were off, tossed beside her like an afterthought. You had unbuttoned your suit jacket, chest open in that way that said both vulnerability and invitation.

“Okay…” you whispered, voice a mix of caution and need.

Cate leaned in, forehead to forehead. “Okay.”

Your lips met slow—testing the water, pulling back, murmuring breathless laughs. It was electric enough to charge the car, raw enough to make you both catch your breath. Cate’s hands fumbled with your shirt buttons, and you wove your fingers into Cate’s hair as if you were holding a lifeline.

Every kiss was a promise: we’re past the fuck-only games, past the no-sex pact, past all the shit we used to say to keep it easy. This was intimacy. This was dangerous. This was everything.

Cate’s fingertips traced under your collar, the faint scent of your suit mingling with the lavender gelato from earlier, and your breath hitched.

You paused, lips hovering at Cate’s earlobe. “We need—”

“Shh,” Cate whispered, pressing her mouth against your jaw, neck, collarbone. She moved with confidence, reclaiming what you’d both been staking a claim on for weeks. No hurry, just worship.

Your knees grazed. Thighs rubbed. Breathing got quicker. Your hand moved lower, brushing over the soft lace of Cate’s dress—which was risky, considering the no-sex pact had just expired. But you both knew: tonight wasn’t about breaking rules. It was about exploring new territory, together.

Cate gasped when your fingers dipped under the fabric, skimming her hip. “Baby…”

“Yeah?” you murmured into Cate’s hair.

“I think Luke’s car is…endorsing this.”

You laughed softly, teeth nipping at her collar. “Come on,” you whispered back, voice thick. “Let me show you how much.”

Cate drew you in again. Your bodies pressed close, voices lost to ragged kisses and murmured names. The glow from the parking lot light filtered through the glass, haloing you in a blur of anonymity—a world away from dorm rooms and half-formed feelings.

You broke for air finally, foreheads together, chest to chest, both trembling.

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice gentle.

“Yeah,” Cate whispered. “Better than I’ve ever been.”

You cupped her face. “Same.”

You kissed again—slow at first, then deeper, as if catching up for all the time you’d held back. Clothes wrinkled. Heat pooled. But the magic wasn’t in the horny energy; it was in the closeness, the safety, the joy of touching someone who finally asked to hold you and meant it.

Eventually, you checked the time on your phone. “We should probably—”

Cate sat up slightly, hair mussed, face glowing. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moved to leave.

Instead, you gathered your arm around Cate’s shoulders and tugged her into a spooning position, legs curled in, head tucked into her neck. Cate’s hand found yours and held it tight.

You fell silent, letting the engine’s hum and night air fill the space between you. A moment after midnight, and everything felt just right—unrushed, safe, and exactly what you’d needed.

“Good date?” Cate asked, voice muffled.

“The best,” you whispered back. “Let’s do this again.”

Cate squeezed your hand. “Definitely.”

You stayed there together—no rush, no pretense, just real and warm in the backseat of Luke’s car—both of you feeling a little drunk on possibility, and more in love than either of you dared to admit until now.

It should’ve been the beginning of something easy.

But instead, the next few days unfolded in careful restraint.

No sleepovers. No sex. Just kisses in stairwells, long glances across classrooms, and the way your hand would brush Cate’s lower back as you walked side by side, close but never too close.

It was maddening. Perfect. A slow burn Cate couldn’t shake.

By Thursday, she was wound tight and glowing with nerves.

She’d planned the perfect surprise—just the right balance of lace, confidence, and please take me apart. All you had to do was walk through the door.

Now she was painfully, suspiciously calm.

She’d worn her hair down on purpose. Laughed too hard at your jokes at lunch. Spent a frankly unholy amount of time trying on lingerie in front of her mirror after class, talking herself in and out of each pair like she was choosing a weapon for war.

This one was the winner.

Midnight blue lace, barely-there, with a tiny velvet ribbon at the waistband. No hearts this time. No hopeful little bow. Just elegance. Confidence. Pick me, and know I pick you right back.

She tucked it under a silk robe and waited for the knock.

You showed up with snacks and your guitar, acting like you didn’t already know you’d be sleeping over. But the moment you stepped inside and saw Cate—curled on the edge of her bed, robe slipping off one shoulder, a smile just this side of wicked—everything in you short-circuited.

Cate stood. Moved slowly. Closed the distance between you with a kind of quiet certainty.

“Hey,” she said, soft.

“Hey,” you echoed, already breathless.

“You staying?” Cate asked, voice velvet.

You didn’t answer.

You just leaned in and kissed her.

It started sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss you give your person after a long day, when you’ve missed their mouth even though you saw them five hours ago. But then Cate pulled at your shirt, tugging it over your head, and things went molten fast.

You tumbled back onto the bed, laughing breathlessly into each other’s mouths. Cate pulled her robe loose, letting it fall away as you hovered above her, lips brushing the hinge of her jaw.

And then—

You saw them.

The panties.

And froze.

Your hand paused at Cate’s hip, fingers just brushing the lace. Your eyes widened.

“You—” you blinked. Swallowed. “You wore new ones again.”

Cate’s stomach dropped. “You noticed?”

“Cate,” you breathed, reverent. “How could I not?”

You sat back on your knees a little, just enough to look. Cate flushed under the attention—hot, pink, adored.

“These are…” you dragged your fingertips along the edge of the lace. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Cate tried for coy. “I mean. You didn’t say anything last time.”

You looked at her, the weight of it settling in your eyes. “Yeah. And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

Cate’s lips parted.

“I noticed those too,” you went on. “The pink ones. The hearts. The little bow. I just…I got scared. That it meant something.”

“It did mean something,” Cate whispered.

“I know that now.”

You leaned in. Kissed just above the waistband.

Then lower.

And again, just at the inside of her hip.

Cate’s breath hitched.

“These,” you said, voice rough, “mean something too. Don’t they?”

Cate nodded. “They mean I wanted you. Tonight. On purpose.”

You met her eyes. “I want you too. Still. Always.”

Cate’s hands curled in your hair, tugging you in. The kiss that followed was desperate. Heated. Laced with all the restraint you’d shed since the pact ended and your love stopped hiding.

And this time—when you kissed your way down and pulled the lace aside with slow, worshipful fingers—Cate felt seen.

Not just wanted. Known.

After, Cate was sprawled like a queen.

Flat on her back, robe discarded on the floor, lips kiss-swollen and hair an absolute mess. She looked ruined in the most luxurious way—like she'd just been thoroughly adored and hadn't stopped smiling since.

You lay beside her on your stomach, cheek pillowed against the bare curve of Cate’s hip, one arm draped across her stomach like you were trying to anchor yourself there. Your breath was still a little uneven. Your body still humming.

“Okay,” Cate said, voice lazy, satisfied. “So you do care about my underwear.”

You groaned into her skin. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying.” Cate turned her head, grinning. “Took you long enough.”

“You don’t understand,” you mumbled. “They were so intense. You wore literal embroidered hearts. It was a statement.”

“I was trying to get your attention!”

“You had it,” you muttered. “You’ve always had it.”

Cate’s smile faltered slightly. Softened.

She reached down and carded her fingers through your damp hair, gentle and rhythmic. “You could’ve told me.”

You tilted your head just enough to look up. “I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

“You couldn’t have.”

“I almost did.”

Cate was quiet for a second. Then: “But you didn’t.”

You turned fully onto your side, propping your chin on Cate’s stomach. “Yeah. Somehow.”

You looked at each other for a moment in the low light—Cate’s bedside lamp glowing amber, casting shadows across your freckles, your still-reddened cheeks, the way your lips curved upwards just barely like you didn’t even know you were smiling.

Cate nudged you. “You were really good.”

You blinked. “At the date?”

“Sure. That too.”

Your ears went pink.

Cate giggled, threading a leg through your. “God, you’re so easy to fluster.”

“You’re so mean.”

“I’m not! I’m sweet. And thoughtful. And I wear special panties just for you.”

You groaned again and collapsed against her. “You’re never gonna let this go.”

“Not a chance.”

A beat passed.

Then, quietly—

“Cate?”

Cate hummed.

“Can I say something kind of stupid?”

Cate looked down at you, hand still in your hair. “Always.”

You hesitated. Then, softly: “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Cate’s chest ached.

“I know that’s probably pathetic,” you added quickly. “But I—I didn’t think this kind of thing got to be mine. You. Us. Something real. Something that doesn’t come with an expiration date.”

Cate leaned down and kissed you gently. Just once.

“It’s not pathetic,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

You buried your face in her stomach.

Cate played with a strand of your hair. “I think I might buy another pair.”

Your voice was muffled. “Of what?”

Cate smiled. “Special panties.”

You immediately sat up, eyes wide. “Are you trying to kill me again?”

Cate just grinned. “Maybe.”

You growled, lunged forward, and tackled her back into the pillows.

You kissed until you were breathless all over again, laughter tangled in your mouths, a future together spilling out across the bed like sunlight.