Your car died with a sound that felt personal. Just like that — silence, hazard lights, the worst possible timing. Your first thought was ’not today’, because this really was the absolutely worst time it could happen. Your second thought was ‘what now’? You were, pretty much, in the middle of nowhere, and the last time another car passed you must have been like half an hour ago.

You tried to start the engine a few times, but it just coughed and then died. You checked the fuel gauge, twice. And… that’s where your knowledge about car maintenance ended.

You were still staring at the dashboard, contemplating your lack of options, when a miracle happened. A loud engine pulled up nearby, music thumping through the air. A garage truck rolled to a stop, and a man hopped out, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag.

He was wearing old, strained overalls, with ridiculously tight, white t-shirt underneath. The leather belt around his waist was heavy with ratcheting wrenches, screwdrivers, flashlights, and God-knows-whats.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, grinning like this is the best thing that’s happened all day, “that doesnae sound healthy.” He leaned over the hood, popped it open before you could even react, and peered inside like it’s gossip.

“Dinnae worry, though. I’ve seen worse. She’s a tad dramatic, but she’ll live.”

He glanced back at you, blue eyes bright, grease on his cheek. “Name’s Johnny. But everyone calls me Soap. Dinnae ask why.”

Strangely, his loud confidence somehow reassured you. He seemed to know what he was doing, and he appeared on this deserted road in just the right time to save the day. You were not going to complain.

“You always this unlucky, or am I special?” He teased, leaning through your rolled-down window.