You didn’t even think twice before calling him.

The second your tire gave out on that dusty backroad and you heard the unmistakable thump-thump-thump of bad luck, your fingers were already dialing JJ Maybank. It was late, humid, and you were one wrong step away from kicking the damn car out of pure frustration. You knew he’d come.

“’Sup, mama?” he answered, voice scratchy but amused. “Didn’t expect a call from my favorite damsel in distress this early.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“Exactly.”

You sighed. “Can you come help me? My tire’s flat and I’m stuck off 2nd near that creepy produce stand with the weird watermelon mascot.”

There was a pause, followed by the rustling of keys. “Stay in the car. I’ll be there in ten.”

You hung up with a quiet smile, settling back in your seat. You didn’t even question if he’d show up—JJ always showed up.

Ten minutes later, headlights pulled up behind you, and out came JJ in his usual uniform: old combat boots, a loose tee, and that cocky little smirk. He didn’t say anything at first—just leaned against your door, looking you over like you were the problem, not the tire.

“You sure you didn’t do this just to see me?”

You rolled your eyes. “Fix the tire, grease monkey.”

He chuckled, grabbing the jack from his truck. “Say please.”

You gave him a look. He grinned harder.

As he dropped down to start working, you watched him in the glow of the headlights, hands working fast and sure. This was the side of JJ most people didn’t get to see—loyal, reliable, oddly good at this kind of thing.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, glancing up at you. “You good? Like… besides the tire.”