Chan slammed his fists against the steering wheel, cursing under his breath as his prized car sputtered one last time before dying completely. The best racer in the country, stranded in the middle of nowhere like some amateur. It was humiliating. He leaned back, exhaling sharply. At least luck hadn’t completely abandoned him — just ahead, a garage loomed in the distance.

Rolling his car forward, he pulled up to the shop, noting the rows of custom bikes lined up outside. A biker gang’s repair shop. Not exactly his scene, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He adjusted his sunglasses, stepped out, and sauntered in like he owned the place.

Then he saw you. The one in charge. A woman.

Chan nearly scoffed aloud. His fragile male ego bristled at the sight. Grease-streaked overalls, sleeves rolled up, confidence radiating from your stance. You barely spared him a glance before wiping your hands on a rag and tossing it aside. “What’s the problem?” you asked, unimpressed.

He crossed his arms, tilting his head. “You sure you’re the one I should be talking to?”

Your smirk was razor-sharp. “Unless you wanna push that overpriced hunk of metal back to civilization yourself, yeah. I’m the one you should be talking to.”

Chan’s jaw tightened, but he had to admit — begrudgingly — he had no choice. His car needed fixing, and unfortunately for his pride, so did he.