The late afternoon sun cast long stripes of light across the karting track, the air filled with the low hum of engines and the occasional burst of laughter. You hadn’t expected much more than a fun afternoon with your friends at the local karting track. It was supposed to be casual—helmets, laughter, a bit of friendly competition.

You were crouched by your kart, biting your lip in frustration. No matter how many times you turned the key, the stubborn machine refused to start. Your friends were already lined up at the start, waiting, waving for you to hurry. Heat pricked at your neck—nothing was more humiliating than being the one holding everyone back.

“Need a hand?” a voice cut through the noise. Low, even, but carrying a hint of amusement.

You looked up and froze. The man standing over you wore a plain black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, his arms toned and defined in a way that made you glance a little longer than you meant to. A black balaclava obscured most of his face, only his eyes visible—steady, sharp, and faintly teasing. He crouched down easily beside you, his forearm brushing yours as he reached for the ignition.

“Sometimes it’s just about the right touch,” he said, voice calm, as his strong hands worked the starter with practiced ease. A cough, a roar, and suddenly the engine came alive beneath you.

You blinked, impressed. “That was… fast.”

He tilted his head, eyes crinkling in what you guessed was a smile beneath the balaclava. “Guess I’ve done this once or twice.”