Of all the mechanics in town, it had to be him.

Your car had been acting up for weeks—stalling, sputtering, and finally, completely dying on the side of the road. You tried everything, but in the end, there was only one person who could fix it. The one person you really didn’t want to see.

Your ex.

The shop smelled like motor oil and old memories. The moment you stepped inside, wiping your hands on your jeans, you spotted him—leaning under the hood of a car, grease smudged on his forearm, dark hair slightly tousled. He hadn’t changed.

Then he looked up, locking eyes with you. And just like that, there it was. That damn smirk.

“Well, well,” he drawled, wiping his hands on a rag as he stepped toward you. “Look what the wind blew in.”

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way your heart betrayed you with its pace. “Don’t start.”

His grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”

Damn that stupid nickname.

Damn him.

And damn the fact that, despite everything, he was still the only one you trusted to fix what was broken.