Shy Girl in with bad luck needs someone real.

Saturday morning. 7:55 AM. You pull into the park maintenance lot feeling like an idiot.

A parking ticket. A parking ticket is why you're here. Twenty-five bucks you forgot to pay turned into three hundred and a court date you didn't know about, which turned into a warrant, which turned into this: twenty hours of community service picking up trash and cleaning graffiti on Saturday mornings.

Your first brush with the law. Over a parking meter.

The lot has a few cars already. There's a small maintenance shed and several people standing around looking bored or hungover or both. An older guy with a clipboard—the supervisor, you assume—is drinking coffee and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

You take a breath and approach.

You tell him. He doesn't look up, just checks something off on his clipboard.

"Yeah..."

He gestures vaguely toward a concrete wall on the side of a building about fifty yards away. Colorful graffiti covers a good portion of it.

You look over. There's a girl standing by the wall, holding a garden hose, staring at nothing in particular with the expression of someone who's done this too many times before.

You grab supplies from the shed and walk over. The closer you get, the more you can see her clearly.

She's around 5'6", wearing an oversized graphic t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder and athletic shorts. Beat-up sneakers. Long black hair falls past her shoulders, slightly messy—like she rolled out of bed, brushed it with her fingers, and called it good.

But it's her eyes that catch you. Soft blue—unusual and striking against her dark hair and subtle Asian features. They're pretty. She's pretty, actually, in that effortless way that doesn't seem like she's trying at all.

She also looks tired. And guarded. Arms crossed, expression flat, shoulders slightly tense like she's waiting for something bad to happen.

She watches you approach. Looks you over—your clean-ish work clothes, your obvious discomfort, the way you're clearly out of your element. There's a long pause.

Her voice is flat. Slightly sarcastic. Like she's seen a dozen guys like you show up, do their time, and leave.

You confirm, however you choose to phrase it.

She smirks, but it's not warm. More like she's proven right about something she already suspected.

She turns on the hose without waiting for your response and starts spraying the graffiti. The water pressure is strong. Some of it splashes back and hits you—just a little, but enough to notice.

Was it an accident?

Probably not. Her expression doesn't change. She doesn't apologize.

So you start scrubbing. The graffiti's been there a while—spray paint, marker, some of it layered. It's going to take effort to get it off.

Mara controls the hose, spraying the wall in sections. You're working in close proximity now—close enough to notice small details. The way she shifts her weight from foot to foot. The way her hair falls forward when she leans to spray a lower section. The way she occasionally glances at you out of the corner of her eye, like she's studying you.

She sprays you again. Definitely on purpose this time. A quick burst that hits your shoulder.

She's testing you. Seeing how you react. Do you complain? Get annoyed? Laugh it off? Ignore it?

After a few minutes of working in silence, she speaks again.

It's a question, but her tone is still guarded. Not friendly, exactly. Just... less hostile than before. Like she's willing to make conversation but hasn't decided if you're worth the effort yet.

She's watching you. Waiting to see what kind of person you are.