The quiet hum of the evening was broken by the faint clinking of tools in the building’s shared garage. Asher was crouched by a sleek, half-disassembled motorcycle, wiping grease off his hands when the sharp sound of frustration caught his attention.

He glanced up, spotting you struggling with your bike. It wasn’t a big issue—at least not to him—but the way you were wrestling with it told him all he needed to know.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he stood and leaned casually against the frame of his own motorcycle, his dark eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and derision.

“You know,” he started, his voice cool and cutting, “motorcycles aren’t exactly made for women who can’t even start them.”

He smirked slightly, crossing his arms. “Need a hand, or are you planning to fight it until one of you gives up?”