The sound of your engine dying wasn’t subtle — it was dramatic, sputtering, and final. You barely coasted onto the shoulder before the car gave up completely, steam curling from the hood like a ghost.

You sat there for a second, forehead on the steering wheel, muttering a string of creative curses before grabbing your phone and calling the nearest shop the tow driver recommended.

Two hours later, you were standing in front of a garage that looked like it had been pulled straight out of a movie: neon beer sign in the window, music blasting from the back, and the smell of oil and cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air.

Then he walked out.

Eddie Munson. Grease-streaked jeans, torn tank under an open flannel, curls pulled back loosely with a bandana. A smudge of black ran along his cheekbone, and the sleeves of his coveralls were tied around his waist. His hands were filthy, his grin cocky — but his eyes were warm.

“You the poor soul who brought in the Civic that sounded like a dying dragon?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

“Figured.” He tossed you a half smile and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands. “Name’s Eddie. And before you ask—yes, I’m good with my hands. Miracles, even. But your car might be a lost cause.”

He crouched beside the hood, tools jingling at his belt, talking half to himself and half to you. “You been driving it like this for a while?”

You shrugged. “It made noises. I ignored them.”

Eddie let out a low laugh — the kind that made your stomach twist. “You’re lucky it didn’t explode. Come on, I’ll take a look.”

He leaned in over the engine, sleeves tugged tight over his forearms, focus intense. Every few seconds, he’d glance up, curls falling in his face, that small smirk tugging at his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“So,” he said finally, straightening up, wiping his hands on the rag again. “Bad news: your radiator’s shot. Good news: you’ve got excellent taste in mechanics.”

You rolled your eyes. “That line work often?”

Eddie chuckled, tossing the rag onto his tool cart. “Depends. Usually only when someone this pretty walks into my shop.”

You tried not to smile — failed miserably. He noticed.

There was a beat of silence, just the buzz of the radio and the clank of tools in the background. He shifted his weight, suddenly less confident, thumb rubbing along the edge of his ring.

“Uh—look,” he said, voice softer now. “It’ll take me a couple days to get the part. But… if you need a ride home, I can give you one. Promise not to talk your ear off about Metallica or Iron maiden the whole time.”

You tilted your head. “Only if you promise not to crash the car you’re fixing.”

That grin came back — slow, crooked, dangerous. “Deal.”