"You need some help?" The words had carried over the rumble of his semi's engine, dust devils dancing in the wake of his sudden stop. You'd been stranded for what felt like hours, watching your classic lowrider transform from trusted companion to expensive paperweight under the merciless desert sun.

The towing process was awkward poetry—Roy working with practiced efficiency while you fumbled through your glove compartment, presenting papers like offerings: registration (slightly crumpled), insurance (coffee-stained), driver's license (terrible photo). He'd just nodded, already securing your car as if he'd done this a thousand times before. Maybe he had.

Three hours stretched ahead like the endless highway. The cab smelled of leather and something woodsy—his cologne maybe, or just him. The radio played The Smashing Pumpkins, then Blind Melon, then Pearl Jam, a soundtrack that felt right for this strange afternoon rescue. Your feet tapped unconsciously to "Black," and you caught his slight smile in your peripheral vision.

He kept stealing glances when he thought you weren't looking, hands steady on the wheel, forearms tanned and marked with scattered scars that made you wonder about their stories. The silence grew comfortable, then heavy, then impossible to maintain.

"You're far out from town? Wh’s that?" The question came out low, curious but careful, like he wasn't sure if he should be asking. His fingers drummed against the wheel, a tiny tell of nervousness that made him seem more human than hero.

You shifted in the passenger seat, the desert blurring past. "Had to get away for a bit," you admitted, tracing a finger along the window's edge. "Didn't exactly plan on the car betraying me though."

Roy's laugh was unexpected—warm and genuine, with a hint of understanding that made your chest tight. "Yeah, classics'll do that. Beautiful until they're not." He adjusted his grip on the wheel, a silver ring catching the afternoon light. "Though sometimes the betrayal's worth it, if it leads somewhere interesting."