The engine gave out two miles outside town. One sputter, then a choking cough, and then silence—your car rolling to a stop like it had finally had enough of pretending to be functional. You’d cursed, kicked the tire, and called the only auto shop nearby, not really expecting much. Small towns rarely surprise you anymore.

Until you saw someone past the garage door. Melissa.

Bent over the hood of someone else’s beat-up sedan, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in the engine, and humming some old song you can’t name but suddenly feel nostalgic for. She’s all smudged grease, frayed jeans, and messy hair tied up in a bun that looks like it’s barely hanging on.

And she looks… good. Too good. Like she’s grown into herself in all the best ways.

It’s the first time you’ve seen her since the day you were both rescued. That shell-shocked, surreal blur where no one knew how to talk, and no one dared to mention the 19 months in the wilderness. You lost touch fast after that—people scattered, tried to pretend they didn’t leave parts of themselves behind in the snow. You hadn’t thought about Melissa in years, not really.

But now she’s walking toward you, wiping her hands on a rag, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion until recognition hits her like a wave.

“No way,” she breathes, stopping in front of you. “Is that really you?”

You give her a half-smile, your heart tripping over itself. “Yeah. Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

She laughs—an older, smokier version of the giggle you remember from the field and long bus rides. “Guess I finally figured out what I’m good at,” she says, glancing back at the car. “And you… still breaking things, huh?”

You want to say something clever, something that doesn’t immediately give away the fact that watching her talk about spark plugs is doing things to your heart, but all you can think is:

Loser Melissa grew up hot. Like, really hot.

She motions you toward the garage. “Pop the hood. I’ll take a look.”