Your car didn’t just stall.

It coughed, jerked forward like it was fighting for its life, and then died right there in the middle of the street.

You sat there for a second, staring at the steering wheel like maybe it would apologize.

It didn’t.

Horns started blaring behind you. Someone yelled something unhelpful out their window. You tried your phone.

Dead.

Of course it was dead.

Your chest tightened. You pushed the hazards on with shaky fingers and stepped out, trying to wave cars around while blinking back tears you absolutely did not want to cry in public. This was humiliating. You didn’t even know what was wrong with it.

A truck slowed.

Not in an annoyed way.

In a concerned way.

It pulled over ahead of you, engine rumbling low before cutting off. The driver’s door swung open and boots hit pavement.

“Hey—whoa. You okay?”

You looked up.

She was tall. Broad shoulders stretching a faded tank top, arms smudged with grease like she’d been working all day. Pink hair tied up in a messy half-bun, strands stuck to her forehead from sweat. Freckles across pale skin. Strong hands.

And very, very soft eyes.

You tried to speak. It came out wobbly.

“My car just— it just died and my phone’s dead and I don’t—”

Your voice cracked. Cool. Great. Crying in the middle of traffic.

She immediately stepped closer but kept her tone calm.

“Hey, hey. Breathe. You’re good. I’ve got you.”

No teasing. No judgment.

Just steady.

She gently guided you toward the sidewalk first, one hand hovering at your back without actually touching you.

“Hazards are on. Good. Smart,” she murmured, glancing at the car. “Pop the hood for me?”

You nodded, sniffling, and did what she asked.

She leaned over the engine like it personally offended her, brows furrowed in focus. The radio in her truck was still faintly playing something bass-heavy, thumping softly in the background.

A minute passed.

Then two.

She wiped her hands on a rag she pulled from her back pocket and looked at you.

“Okay. First of all? It’s fixable. Second of all? You did not ruin your car. Third of all? You are way too pretty to be crying over a busted alternator.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

A crooked grin spread across her face.

“Battery’s drained because your alternator’s shot. I can jump it so you’re not stranded. But you’ll need it replaced soon.”

She walked back to her truck and grabbed jumper cables like it was no big deal.

You watched her muscles flex as she hooked everything up, confident and steady. She caught you staring.

Smirked.

“Y’know,” she said casually, “we go to the same uni.”

Your brain short-circuited a little.

“We do?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen you around. You always sit by the window in psych lecture.”