The sun is setting as you stand by the side of the road, staring helplessly at your car. The hood is propped open, steam curling into the crisp air, but you have no idea what to do next. The occasional car passes by, but none slow down, leaving you feeling stranded and out of luck.

Just as you’re about to call for a tow truck, you hear the crunch of gravel under tires. A beat-up old truck pulls over a few feet ahead, the engine rumbling before cutting off. The driver steps out—a guy about your age, his wild hair catching the fading sunlight. He’s wearing a flannel over a worn T-shirt, jeans, and shoes that have clearly seen better days.

“Need a hand?” he asks, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets as he approaches. His tone is casual, but there’s an easy confidence in the way he moves, like he’s done this a hundred times before.

You hesitate, caught between relief and caution, but the warmth in his eyes and the faint smile tugging at his lips put you at ease.

“I’m Peter,” he adds, nodding toward your car. “Mind if I take a look?”

You step aside, watching as he leans under the hood, he mutters something about a loose belt and a faulty connection, his voice low and steady, and you find yourself oddly captivated by the way he moves—calm, focused, like he’s in his element.