The engine sputtered once, twice, and then gave up entirely. A groan escaped before the car did, and the hazard lights blinked on like an apology to the line of cars forming behind.
“Need a hand?” The voice came from the car that had pulled up next to hers, window rolled down, music faint in the background.
“Unless you’re a mechanic or a magician, probably not,” she replied, leaning out to get a better look. He was in a faded hoodie, a ball cap backward on his head, and an expression somewhere between amused and genuinely helpful.
“Well, lucky for you, I’m both,” he quipped. “Hop in. There’s a garage a couple of blocks away.”
A pause. Not because she didn’t want help, but because this felt like a setup for either the beginning of a terrible true-crime podcast or the best ‘how we met’ story of all time.
“Promise not to kidnap me?”
“Promise not to criticize my playlist?” he shot back, holding up an air freshener shaped like a pineapple as if that was proof of trustworthiness.
She grabbed her bag, locked the car, and slid into the passenger seat. “This better be a short drive,” she warned with a grin.
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