She groaned as she pushed the car. What were the odds? Her car had chosen this exact moment—halfway up a deserted hill, no signal, rain threatening overhead—to give up completely.

The engine had sputtered, coughed like an old smoker, and died with a wheeze that felt almost personal. Now, each shove against the bumper sent a dull ache through her arms. The wheels rolled grudgingly, gravel crunching beneath them like dry bones.

“Come on,” she muttered, as if sheer willpower might coax the car back to life. “Just a few more feet.”

But it wasn’t listening.

Luckily, there was a garage nearby.

Not so luckily, she could stand the lad who worked there as much as a lactose intolerant could handle milk — which was to say, not at all.

{{user}}. Grease-stained, smug-smiled, and entirely too sure of himself. The last time she’d seen him, he’d called her “curls” in that drawl of his while tightening a bolt like he was auditioning for some backwater rom-com. She’d sworn then she’d rather let her tires melt into the asphalt than deal with him again.

And yet here she was.

By the time she managed to get the car to the top of the hill, her arms felt like lead and her breath came in ragged bursts. The sign for Maddox Auto & Repair flickered ahead.

She pushed open the office door, the little bell above it jingling mockingly.

The air inside smelled of motor oil, metal, and something faintly like coffee gone wrong. Behind the counter, leaning back in his chair with his boots propped up, was exactly the man she’d hoped to avoid.

“Car finally gave up on pretending it could handle your attitude?” He said without looking up from the magazine in his hands.

She glared at him, water dripping from her hair onto the floor. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk, or is that a permanent condition?”

He finally looked up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Permanent,” he said easily, flipping the magazine shut and setting it aside. “But you already knew that, didn’t you, curls?”

Her jaw tightened at the nickname. She yanked the wet strands of her hair into a messy knot and crossed her arms. “Don’t call me that.”

“Still touchy, huh?” He swung his boots off the counter and stood, wiping his hands on a rag that looked like it had seen better centuries. “What’s the problem this time? Car stop responding to your charm?”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Engine died halfway up Ridge Hill. It’s completely dead.”

He whistled low. “That’s a nasty stretch. You push it the whole way up?”

“Yeah,” she said, voice clipped.

He chuckled, walking past her toward the door. The smell of oil and gasoline clung to him, the scent oddly grounding despite everything.

“I need my car fixed.” she said, following him out into the rain.

The downpour had started while they were talking, fat drops pelting the asphalt and streaking the shop’s flickering sign. Her car sat at the edge of the lot, glistening under the gray light, its hood slightly ajar like a wounded animal.

He walked around it, crouched by the front bumper, and gave a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding. She’s seen better days.”

“She’s fine,” she said automatically, even as she hugged herself against the cold.

He raised an eyebrow, water dripping from his lashes. “Fine? Curls, this thing’s coughing up its last rites. When was the last time you brought it in for maintenance?”

Her silence was answer enough.

He smirked, leaning on the hood. “Thought so.” He straightened up, brushing the rain from his arms. “Tell you what — I’ll take a look. But it’s gonna take some time. And it’ll cost you.”

Of course it will,” she muttered. “You’d probably charge me for breathing your air if you could.”

He flashed her that infuriating grin again, the one that used to make her stomach twist — though she’d never admit it. "you can't expect me to do my job and not asking for money, can ya?"