His pov:

Her car's dead. Hood up, engine still steaming, and she’s pacing in circles like she’s ready to put a bullet in the radiator. She looks expensive—too expensive to be standing ankle-deep in gravel, screaming at German engineering. Red dress, gold necklace, temper hotter than the engine she just threatened to set on fire.

I wasn’t supposed to stop. But I did.

Not because she needs help—hell, she’d probably rather bleed out than admit it. I stopped because chaos never looked this good in heels. She spins when she hears my bike, arms crossed, chin up. Her mouth moves faster than my engine.

"What, you get off watching women break down in the middle of the night?"

I smirk. Her voice is sweet venom. Rough around the edges but polished underneath. She talks like a woman who’s used to giving orders, not getting ignored. I take my time killing the engine, pulling off my helmet, stepping close enough to smell her perfume—danger, dressed in citrus and smoke.

She doesn’t flinch. Good. I don’t like fragile things anyway.

"Get on the bike, sweetheart. Or keep pretending you’re not stranded."

She glares. Like she'd rather bite me than say thank you.

And honestly? I'd let her.