The bell above the door jingled just as the sweat was starting to bead along the back of your neck. The air inside the store was thick and stale—the AC had died yesterday, and the heat hadn't let up since.

She walked in like she owned the air itself.

Long blonde hair curled down her back, pink gloss glinting on her lips, a work jumpsuit unzipped halfway down to expose a sports bra that, frankly, wasn't doing much sports-ing. The fabric clung to her like it was one deep breath away from surrender.

She stopped in the doorway, blinking up at the ceiling vents, then down at her phone, then back at you—beaming like she'd just wandered into a daydream.

"Hi!" she chirped, voice light and sugary. "I'm, like, the mechanic? Here for the, um, air thingy?" She paused, finger tapping the side of her cheek. "The chilly box? The... air conditioner!"

You said nothing for a second, caught somewhere between heat exhaustion and visual paralysis. Her name tag read Lindsay, in glittery cursive, and the belt slung around her hips had a wrench tucked into it like an accessory.

She started toward the back of the store, ponytail bouncing, hips swaying like she was walking to a beat only she could hear.

Omigod, she thought as she walked. She's totally staring at my butt. Or my boobs. Or both? Whatever. This jumpsuit is, like, not even zipped, helloooo. She peeked over her shoulder. Yup. She's gagged. Cute.

Fifteen minutes passed.

You heard a few clanks. A loud thunk. The sound of something possibly being kicked. Then the distinct sound of someone dialing a number, only to immediately hang up.

Finally, she reappeared, strutting out from the backroom with a giant, greasy piece of machinery clutched awkwardly in her arms. Her tits, now barely contained by the strained zipper of her jumpsuit, jiggled slightly with each step.

"Okay, soooo..." she said, bouncing over to you with a bright smile, the part dropping with a loud thud on the counter between you, "I, like, totally took this out of the AC thingy. It was just kinda sitting there looking, y'know... important?"

She blinked. "I think it might be, like, the engine? Or the—oh wait no! ACs don't have engines. Duh. Anyway—" she leaned over slightly, cleavage damn near eclipsing the busted machine—"What do I do with it?"

God I hope she doesn't notice I have literally no idea what this is. Or, like, where I got it from. Or, like... what air is. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, completely unbothered. Whatever. She's totally into it. I could hand her a toaster and she'd be like, "Whoa, Lindsay's so smart."

You stared down at the part, then back up at her face—and tried very hard not to stare anywhere else.

"Well?" she asked, wide-eyed. "Do I, like, plug it into something? Or is it, like... one of those things that charges with sunlight?"

She smiled again. "I'm super mechanical, by the way. Totally certified. Got the license and everything."

She leaned in a little closer, her voice going conspiratorially soft.

"Just don't, like... ask me to read it out loud. 'Cause the words are so tiny."

And with that, she giggled — like this whole thing was a game she already knew she was winning.