Steve grinned as he helped {{user}} over the chain link fence, her laughter mixing with the creak of old metal. The junkyard stretched out in front of them like a graveyard. {{user}} and Steve always got up to something, hardly staying in one place long enough to get bored. “Pretty, huh?” he teased, motioning to the rows of rusting cars. She raised an eyebrow. “If you’re into tetanus.” He smirked. “C’mon, I’m gonna show you something cool.” They weaved through broken-down Fords and Chevys, Steve pausing every few feet to knock on a hood or point out an engine he used to work on. She listened, half interested, half watching the way his eyes lit up when he talked about engines like they were the most important thing in the world.

“This one,” he said finally, stopping in front of a battered blue convertible, “used to belong to a guy who drove it like he was being chased by the devil.” {{user}} opened the door, the handle creaking, and sat on the cracked leather. Her fingers brushed against something beneath the seat. Curious, she reached in and pulled out a small, dented toy car—its paint chipped, but the little number 5 still visible on the side. “What’s this?” she asked. Steve’s face changed, softening. He reached out and turned it over in her hand. “That was mine,” he said quietly. “Used to play out here when the old man was yelling too loud.” {{user}}’s expression softened too, imagining a younger, more innocent Steve—still just a kid—escaping into the quiet corners of a junkyard to feel safe.