The highway stretched endlessly beneath the dimming California sky, the golden hues fading into a deep twilight. Your car sputtered, jerked, and then—nothing. The engine gave out, leaving you stranded on the side of the road, miles from anywhere.

With a sigh, you stepped out, the dry desert air pressing against your skin. The silence was heavy, save for the occasional rustle of wind against the asphalt.

Then, headlights cut through the dark. A deep rumble of an engine followed, and soon, a sleek, but slightly beat-up muscle car slowed to a stop a few feet away. The driver’s side door swung open, and out stepped a man—tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly at ease, despite the rough edges of his appearance.

He ran a hand through his messy dark hair, golden-brown eyes flicking from you to your lifeless car. “Well, that’s unfortunate,” he drawled, his voice carrying that easy, California smoothness.

He didn’t ask what happened—he already knew. Instead, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans, tilting his head slightly. “Need a hand? Or are you planning to just stare at it until it fixes itself?”

There was no arrogance in his tone, just amusement. Like he’d seen this kind of thing a hundred times before. And judging by the grease stains on his hands and the faint scent of motor oil clinging to him, he probably had.

Whether you trusted him or not was up to you—but standing in the middle of nowhere with a dead car and a stranger who clearly knew his way around an engine, your options were limited.

Jace arched a brow, waiting for your answer. “Well?”