Your car sputtered one last pathetic cough before dying completely, the engine groaning like it was giving up on life right there on the side of some godforsaken back road.

Steam hissed from the hood, and your hands were already greasy from checking shit you didn’t even know how to fix.

Great.

No signal.

No traffic.

Just you and your dumb luck stranded in the middle of nowhere. But just when you were about to kick the tire in pure frustration, the low purr of a car engine broke the silence, growing louder, slower… until it rolled into view and parked a few feet behind you. Your stomach dropped.

No. Fucking. Way.

Of all people. You turned, and there he was—Steve Harrington, leaning casually against the driver’s side of his shiny 1980 BMW 733i, sunglasses low on his nose and that cocky, smug-as-hell smirk plastered across his face like he’d been waiting for this moment.

He didn’t even say anything at first, just tilted his head, eyes raking over you like you were the punchline to the joke of the century.

“Well, well, well,”

he finally drawled, lips curving into that infuriating half-grin.

“Didn’t think I'd find you broken down in the middle of nowhere. Looks like karma drives a piece of shit, huh?”