you weren’t even five miles out of town when your car started coughing like it was about to die. it sputtered once, twice, and then gave out completely on the side of the road. nothing but trees, gravel, and your rapidly declining patience.

you called the nearest auto repair shop, not expecting much. but twenty minutes later, a beat up truck rolled up and out stepped a woman built like she could lift your car with her bare hands if she felt like it. grease on her tank top, boots caked in dirt, hair pulled back in a lazy braid.

abby anderson.

you’d heard the name around town, mostly from women who couldn’t stop talking about the “quiet one with the arms.” now you understood why.

she walked up to your car, gave you a once-over, then crouched down to check under the hood. “what’d you do to her?” she asked, not accusing, just amused.

“i drove,” you said flatly.

abby snorted. “yeah, that'll do it.”

you stood off to the side, feeling useless while she worked—rolling up her sleeves (unnecessarily, you thought) and muttering things like “damn fan belt’s barely holding on” and “who even installed this?”

you tried not to stare at her arms. at the way she wiped sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. at how easily she moved around like she’d been born in a garage.

she caught you watching at one point and smirked. “you alright over there, sweetheart?”