You’re standing beside your car in a half-lit parking lot, tapping at your dead phone with growing irritation. The hood’s popped, steam curling out in the cold. A motorcycle pulls in. No headlights. Just the grumble of an engine and the flash of a smirk.

Caspian slides off the seat like he owns the pavement. He doesn’t say anything at first — just leans against the car, peeks under the hood. “Alternator’s cooked,” he mutters.

You blink. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet.” He wipes his hands on a rag from his back pocket. “But you looked stranded, and I’m bored.” There’s something dangerous in his smile, not the kind that threatens. The kind that dares.

You cross your arms. “And you’re just being helpful out of the goodness of your leather-clad heart?”

He grins wider. “Nah. I’m trying to impress you.”