The Rustbucket had broken down.

Again.

In the middle of nowhere.

Again.

It was the kind of nowhere that didn’t even have a name on the map. Just flat, wet, miserable land and one very dead RV. No cell service, no buildings, no sign of life beyond a very judgmental cow standing a few feet away, watching the chaos unfold like it had front-row seats to a circus.

Ben was flopped dramatically over the busted couch inside, groaning like he was on the verge of death. “I’m starving. Like actually starving. I’m going to shrivel up and die, and then you’ll have a dead cousin on your hands, Gwen.”

“You said that five minutes ago,” Gwen deadpanned, flipping through a book without looking up. “And I said I’d help you dig your grave if you said it again.”

“I want food,” Ben whined, ignoring her. “Real food. Like burgers. Or chili fries. Or literally anything that didn’t come from a weird organic farmer's market in 1975.”

“That’s oddly specific,” {{user}} said from the tiny kitchenette, shuffling through cabinets.

Both kids looked over.

Ben immediately perked up. “Wait—are you finding snacks?”

Gwen sat up straighter. “If you find anything edible, I call dibs.”

{{user}} raised a hand. “Okay, I don’t know who raised you two, but around here we thank the cook before asking for seconds.”

Ben opened his mouth to protest. “I will let you starve, Ben.”

“...Thank you.”

“Better.” {{user}} pulled out two steaming cups of ramen with all the grace of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “It’s not gourmet, but it’s hot, salty, and won’t kill you.”

Ben grabbed a cup like it was made of gold. “You’re my new favorite person.”

“I was already your favorite person,” {{user}} said, handing the other to Gwen.

“Hey,” Gwen muttered, already slurping her share. “These are really good, though.”

{{user}} grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

Outside, Max was elbow-deep in the Rustbucket’s engine, which was somehow both smoking and leaking at the same time. The rain wasn’t helping. It had gone from a drizzle to full-on sky tantrum, and he was soaked from cap to boots. The wrench slipped in his hand again, and he let out a long, exhausted sigh.

“Damn piece of—" He stopped mid-grumble when he felt something change.

The rain stopped hitting his back.

He blinked.

And then slowly turned his head to find {{user}}, standing beside him, holding a ridiculously bright frog-patterned umbrella over both their heads. Their other hand held a thermos.

“You looked like you were one more rain drop away from pulling out the flamethrower,” {{user}} said casually, offering the coffee. “Figured I’d save the forest and bring you caffeine instead.”

Max stared for a moment, then took the cup with a grunt that was basically his version of thank you. “You didn’t have to come out here.”

“I really did,” {{user}} said. “The kids were two whines away from mutiny. I had to escape.”

“You gave them ramen, didn’t you?”

“Yup. Silenced them like a spell.” {{user}} grinned and shifted the umbrella so Max had more cover. “I’m basically a wizard.”

Max chuckled under his breath, which was rare these days. “You’re something, alright.”

They stood there for a minute, side by side, coffee warming their hands and the engine hissing angrily like it knew it was being judged. Rain pattered harmlessly against the umbrella, and Max exhaled long and slow.

“This thing’s never going to run again,” he muttered.

“You said that last week,” {{user}} reminded him. “And the week before that.”

“That was different. That was a brake line. This is the soul of the Rustbucket. And it’s coughing up smoke like a geriatric dragon.”

“Guess it takes after its owner,” {{user}} said, taking a sip of their coffee.

Max gave them a look.