It starts with smoke. And heat. And the slow, unmistakable sound of something giving up.

Patrick pulls off the road, gravel pinging under the tires as if mocking him. The engine sputters, shudders, and dies in a final dramatic gasp. For a moment, all he can do is sit there, one hand still on the key, the other clenched tight around the wheel.

Silence stretches, thick and heavy. The sun pours through the windshield like it’s trying to suffocate him. His shirt clings to his back. His jaw tightens.

The middle of nowhere. That’s where he’s landed. There’s a cracked sidewalk, a peeling white fence in the distance, and a sign advertising some sort of pie sale nailed to a tree. A pie sale.

He lets out a breath that feels like surrender.

This was supposed to be a quick stop. A drive-through. One night at most. A place to forget. Or not think at all. But now the car is dead, his phone signal is mocking him with a single blinking bar, and the map app won’t even load the road name.

He slams the car door harder than necessary, steps out into the heat. The air smells like dry grass and exhaust. A dragonfly darts past his face. Somewhere nearby, wind chimes tangle lazily in a porch breeze.

And then—movement.

A figure in the corner of his vision. Approaching. Slow. Unbothered. A pair of sneakers with a pink lace. An iced coffee in one hand. A ribbon in your hair like it means something.

He doesn’t react right away. Doesn’t know how. You walk like the world is used to adjusting to your pace. Like nothing here ever rushes. And for a brief second, the sight of you in this strange, syrup-slow town makes his chest go tight with something too soft to name.

You don’t speak. Not at first.

Just stop a few feet away, head tilted, brows slightly raised. Waiting, not pressing. You glance at the smoke curling faintly from the hood, then back to him.

He scrubs a hand down his face. Feels the grime already settling into his palms.

Of course this is how it would go. Of course he’d get stuck somewhere with lavender flower beds and church bells echoing off Main Street and someone who looks like you showing up at the worst possible moment.

You don’t ask what happened.

You don’t offer advice.

You just wait. The sun hits your shoulder like it’s in on the plan.

And Patrick, still sticky with sweat and scowling from the heat, does something entirely against his nature:

He says, “It’s dead. The car. It gave up.”

There’s no punchline. No sarcasm. Just a flat, frustrated truth.

You smile. Not in a way that feels smug or pitying—just something quiet, knowing. Like this kind of breakdown isn’t new to you. Like you’ve seen stranger things on this street and survived them all.

You say something he doesn’t quite catch. Not because it’s mumbled, but because it’s wrapped in ease. It’s the kind of thing someone says when they’re used to helping without being asked. Maybe you offered directions. Maybe you said something about the mechanic. Maybe you just told him not to worry.

It doesn’t matter. Not really. What matters is that you said it like you meant it.

He exhales. The sweat sticks at the back of his neck.

“You said something about a mechanic?” he mutters, not quite looking at you.

It’s not gratitude. Not yet.

But it’s not nothing.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second—curious, cautious, waiting.

The hood’s still smoking. The sun’s still unbearable.

But now it’s your move.