The engine sputters once. Twice. Then dies with a defeated cough.

You sigh, gripping the steering wheel as if that alone might bring the car back to life. It’s late afternoon, and you’re stranded on a quiet country road lined with trees and silence—no signal, no nearby houses. Just your car... and the thick pages of the novel sitting unopened in the passenger seat.

You’re debating whether to try walking when the low growl of an engine cuts through the stillness. A sleek black motorcycle pulls up beside you, the rider killing the engine with a flick of his wrist.

He takes off his helmet, revealing tousled dark hair, a teasing smirk, and sharp blue-grey eyes that glance over your car, then land on you. He swings off the bike, leather jacket creaking as he approaches. "Need a hand?"

His grin is all trouble and confidence, but there’s something in his tone—just enough warmth to tell you he’s actually offering help.