Mandy’s car dies in the middle of the street.

Just straight up gives up.

She slams the steering wheel. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You climb out, immediately hit by the smell of oil and hot metal. “Maybe it just needs a minute?”

She glares at you. “Cars don’t need breaks. They need not to betray you.”

She pops the hood aggressively. You peer inside like you know what you’re doing. You don’t.

“So,” you say carefully, “do you know what’s wrong?”

Mandy crosses her arms. “No. But I’m mad enough to fix it.”

You spend the next hour passing tools, getting grease everywhere, and arguing about what parts do what.

“That’s not the alternator,” you say.

“How do you know?”

“Because I googled it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Nerd.”

At some point, she laughs—soft and surprised. “You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

You shrug. “Didn’t feel right leaving you.”

She pauses, looking at you like she’s trying to figure something out.

Eventually—somehow—the car starts.

Mandy cheers, smacking the hood. “YES! Eat that!”

She turns to you, grease-smudged and grinning. “You’re officially part of the chaos now.”