You never planned to get a flat tire in the middle of nowhere. In heels. On a Monday. With your phone at 3%.

Your convertible sputtered out near a dusty, old garage that looked like it belonged in a horror movie—minus the horror, replaced by a sweaty, shirtless guy under the hood of a Mustang.

Grease on his cheek. Wrench in hand. Tattoos peeking out of his rolled-up sleeves.

You stared. He stared back.

Then—

"You lost, Princess?"

You bristled. “Excuse me? I’m not lost. My car broke down.”

He smirked, wiping his hands with a rag. “And I’m guessing you’ve never changed a tire in your life.”

“I don’t touch tires. I buy new ones.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. Like you were a comedy special.

You hated him.

But also… the way his forearms flexed? Anyway.

He fixed your car in under ten minutes.

You said thanks. He winked. You flipped your hair and swore you’d never come back.

Except you did.

A week later, your car “mysteriously” broke down again. And again.

(Okay, you might have unscrewed something just to see him.)

And every time, he’d smirk like he knew your game. Like you were the kind of chaos he secretly liked.

One afternoon, while he was under your car and you sat cross-legged on his workbench eating chips, he asked:

“You gonna keep pretending your car’s broken just to see me?”

You shrugged. “You gonna keep fixing it for free?”

He smirked again. “Yeah.”

You blinked.

“Why?”

He stood, wiped his hands, leaned in close. Real close.

“Because watching you fall for me is the best part of my day.”