The engine stuttered and groaned before finally giving in, and you slumped against the driver’s seat, forehead pressed to the steering wheel.

“Piece of shIt,” you muttered, kicking the dash for good measure.

Your phone was already at 4%, it was almost dark, and of course — of course — it had to break down halfway between the diner and home. Again.

You were just about to scream when the low rumble of a motorcycle rolled up beside you, followed by a familiar voice:

“She gave you trouble again?”

You looked up to see Damiano pulling off his helmet, his hair a mess from the ride, grease still smudged on his jaw from whatever job he’d just finished. The orange glow from the sunset hit the chain around his neck, the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt, the dark lines of tattoos down his forearm.

And somehow, suddenly, everything felt okay.

“You always show up when I’m about to completely lose my mind,” you said, stepping out of the car.

He grinned, slow and crooked, shoving his keys in his back pocket as he walked over. “That’s because your car’s a drama queen and I’m the only one she’ll listen to.”

“You mean I’m a drama queen,” you said back.

He laughed low before leaning in to kiss your cheek, the smell of engine oil and laundry detergent clinging to him.

“Yeah, but you’re my drama queen.”

You melted just a little at that, even if you rolled your eyes.

As he popped your hood and got to work, you leaned against the side of the car, watching the way his hands moved — practiced, sure, like he could fix the world if it had a few more bolts. No gloves. No fear.

“You ever think about doing something else?” you asked softly. “Something easier?”

He glanced at you from under the hood, brow raised.

“Nah,” he said. “I like working with my hands. Besides… if I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t have met you in that busted-up diner parking lot, remember?”