The day my car finally decided to die was just like every other day since Mission City: heavy with memories and stubbornly refusing to move forward. The sun was setting in an offensively picturesque way—the kind of sunset that should accompany a carefree road trip, not a full-blown vehicular mutiny. The air smelled faintly of pine and impending disappointment, with just enough autumn chill to send me burrowing deeper into Dad's old leather bomber jacket.
The '67 Chevelle—Dad's pride and joy, his weekend project, his "gonna restore her when I get back from this military contract" dream—sat defeated on the shoulder of a desolate two-lane road. Smoke curled from under the hood like disappointed sighs, and the complete absence of cell service felt like the universe's personal middle finger.
"Come on, girl," I whispered, running my hand along the faded blue paint, my silver thumb ring catching on a rough spot. Dad used to do this exact same thing, his engineer's hands gentle against the metal as he'd tell me, "Cars have souls, Tor. Treat 'em right, they'll never let you down." Well, looks like someone forgot to tell this soul about that particular arrangement.
I twisted the ring anxiously—a habit Mom swore would give me arthritis by thirty—and popped the hood, immediately regretting it as a cloud of smoke assaulted my face. The engine, a complicated maze of parts Dad had taught me about during countless Sunday afternoons, looked exactly the same as always—except for the whole 'potentially on fire' thing. My fingers instinctively reached for the sketchpad in my messenger bag; I'd drawn this engine so many times, trying to understand it the way he did.
"Thanks a lot, you glorified paperweight." I kicked the front tire—not my proudest moment, but my BPD wasn't exactly known for its impulse control. The car responded with a loud clank and another puff of smoke, like it was personally offended by my attitude. "Oh, real mature. Mom's going to kill me if I'm late for the dinner rush again."
The thought of the café—of Mom trying to handle the Friday night crowd alone while processing her own grief through endless batches of tiramisu—made my chest tight. Two years, three months, and twelve days since Mission City, since that "tragic industrial accident" that nobody would properly explain. Since the day my aerospace engineer father went to work at a military facility and never came home.
Just as I was contemplating whether my art degree would help me survive in the wilderness (spoiler alert: probably not), the low growl of an approaching engine caught my attention. It wasn't the cheery hum of an everyday sedan or the subdued grumble of a truck. This was something else—something that sounded eerily similar to the military vehicles I remembered from that day in Mission City, which was definitely not helping my anxiety.
The car that rolled into view was, frankly, obnoxiously attractive. A yellow Camaro with black racing stripes, looking fresh out of whatever government facility that probably had my dad's death certificate locked in a filing cabinet marked "classified." It looked too pristine, too purposeful to be out here on this lonely stretch of road. The engine purred to a stop just a few feet away, rumbling like it was trying to start a conversation.
Then the driver stepped out, and my already frayed nerves went into overdrive.
First impression? He didn't look real. Like, the kind of unreal that reminded me of those classified military photos Dad used to hide in his office. Tall and lean, his posture screamed military training—but not the obvious kind. He wore a black leather jacket that seemed too perfect, like it had never seen a rainy day or a coffee spill. Beneath it, a fitted gray T-shirt hinted at just enough muscle to make my anxiety whisper "he could definitely be a government assassin." His jeans were dark and snug, his boots scuffed in a way that looked deliberately calculated. And his hair? Tousled blond waves that somehow managed to look both messy and precise, catching the last glimmers of sunlight like some sort of warning beacon.
But it was his eyes that really got me. Bright blue, crystalline, and unnaturally focused—the kind of blue that reminded me of the strange lights I'd glimpsed in Mission City before the media blackout. They locked onto me with an intensity that sent my fight-or-flight response into chaos. I gripped the strap of my messenger bag, feeling the familiar outline of my sketchbook—my usual anchor when things got too intense.
"Need some help?" he asked, his voice low and steady, with just the faintest mechanical undertone that my artist's ear couldn't quite ignore.
I blinked, realizing I hadn't said anything yet. My usual snark warred with the inexplicable feeling that I was standing in front of something far more interesting than a random Good Samaritan. But since impulse control had never been my strong suit—thanks, BPD—I went with snark.
"Wow, what gave it away?" I gestured dramatically to the smoking car behind me, nearly hitting him with my flailing arm. He didn't flinch. At all. Like, not even a blink. "Was it the smell of burning oil or the fact that I'm standing here having an existential crisis with my dead dad's car?"
His lips twitched, like he was considering multiple response options. "The smoke was a clue," he said, his voice modulating perfectly between humor and something else I couldn't quite place. "But talking to cars usually means someone needs more than just mechanical help."
I stiffened, my hand automatically going to the ring again. "Yeah, well, some cars are better listeners than people." I pulled out my sketchbook, because apparently my coping mechanisms had zero chill. "Mind if I draw you while you judge my life choices? It's only fair—you get to fix my car, I get to immortalize this weird moment in graphite."
"Draw away," he said, moving toward the Chevelle with an oddly fluid grace. His movements were too precise, like each step had been choreographed. The kind of movement that begged to be captured on paper, even if it didn't quite make sense.
I started sketching, quick rough lines capturing the weird way he seemed to occupy space. "So, do you have a name, or should I just call you 'Mysteriously Helpful Stranger' in my witness statement later?"
"Brooks," he said, his hands hovering over the engine with strange familiarity. "Brooks Olsen."
"That sounds incredibly fake," I muttered, adding more shadow to his impossibly perfect jawline. "Like something out of a government name generator."
"Says the girl named Vittoria," he replied without looking up, his hands moving over the engine with impossible precision, touching parts exactly where Dad used to say the soul of a car lived.
I froze, pencil mid-stroke. "Okay, how did you—"
"Registration slip," he said smoothly, but there was a slight glitch in his movement. "It's on your dashboard."
"Right. Because you can definitely read my full Italian name from a faded registration slip in this lighting." I narrowed my eyes, adding more detail to his too-perfect features in my sketch. "Next you'll tell me you know I work at Tavelli's Café and have an unhealthy attachment to my sketchbooks."
"Small town," he said, straightening up and wiping his hands on a rag that seemed to materialize from nowhere. "Best cannoli in North Beach. Your father used to bring them to the base all the time."
The pencil snapped in my hand.
"Right. Because I'm totally buying that you've had our cannoli," I said, fishing another pencil from my bag. "You look more like a 'protein shake and military rations' kind of guy."
His lips twitched again. "Alternator's shot," he said, changing subjects with mechanical efficiency. "I can get it running temporarily, but you shouldn't drive it far."
"Define 'far,'" I said, already calculating the odds of making it to the café versus walking home in Dad's jacket that still smelled faintly of motor oil and the cologne Mom couldn't bring herself to throw away.
"More than a few miles." His eyes flickered—actually flickered—to the Chevelle's engine. "These older models… they're temperamental."
"Tell me about it." I patted the hood affectionately. "Dad always said she had personality. I'm pretty sure that's just engineer-speak for 'breaks down dramatically at the worst possible moments.'"
Something shifted in his expression at the mention of Dad—subtle, but my artist's eye caught it. Like a glitch in an otherwise perfect simulation. But before I could analyze it further, a distant sound—something between a jet engine and metal scraping metal—echoed through the trees. Brooks's whole demeanor changed instantly, his form tensing in ways that human muscles definitely shouldn't move.
"Let me give you a ride," he said, voice carrying an edge of urgency that actually sounded human. "We can call a tow truck from town."
"Wow, straight to the 'get in my car' offer?" I raised an eyebrow, clutching my sketchbook closer. "You know, most serial killers at least try small talk first."
That almost-smile returned. "Would it help if I promised I'm not a serial killer?"
"That's exactly what a serial killer would say." But I was already shouldering my bag, because honestly? The way the air suddenly felt charged with electricity was way creepier than this suspiciously perfect stranger.
Sliding into the passenger seat of the Camaro felt like stepping into a completely different tax bracket. The interior was immaculate—leather seats that probably cost more than my entire art school tuition, a dashboard that practically whispered "I make better life choices than you," and the faint scent of leather and citrus that definitely wasn't coming from any normal car freshener.
"So," I said, buckling my seatbelt and trying not to feel like a stray cat that had wandered into a luxury penthouse. "Do you pick up stranded motorists often, or am I just special? Wait, don't answer that—you probably have some cryptic response that'll just give me more material for my therapist."
He climbed in smoothly—too smoothly, like gravity was more of a suggestion than a law—and glanced at me sideways as the engine purred to life. That almost-smile played at his lips again.
"You always this suspicious of people trying to help?"
"Only the ones who look like they walked out of a government catalog for 'Suspiciously Attractive Secret Agents.'" I pulled out my sketchbook again, adding details to my earlier drawings. "Besides, have you seen crime documentaries lately? The helpful stranger is always either a serial killer or an undercover superhero. Given the car, I'm leaning toward superhero, but I'm keeping my options open."
The Camaro glided onto the road with impossible smoothness, like it was hovering rather than driving. The radio flickered briefly—probably just my imagination going into overdrive.
"North Beach, right?" he asked, as if he hadn't already made it clear he knew exactly where I was headed.
"Yep. Just drop me at the marina. I can walk from there." I kept sketching, trying to capture the weird way light seemed to bend around his edges. "My mom always says not to let strange men know where you live, even if they do drive cars worth more than our entire café."
His laugh caught me off guard—a sound that seemed to surprise even him. The car's engine rumbled in sync with it, which was… definitely something I was going to think about later. Preferably during my next therapy session.
The lights of North Beach appeared ahead, the familiar glow of home making something in my chest loosen slightly. Brooks pulled up to the marina parking lot, the Camaro's engine idling with what almost sounded like reluctance.
"Thanks for the ride," I said, gathering my things. "And for not being a serial killer. Really raised the bar for all future roadside rescues."
"Toria," he said as I reached for the door handle. Something in his voice made me pause. "Be careful with that car of yours. Some things… they attract attention."
I turned back, a dozen snarky responses ready, but the look in his eyes stopped me. For a moment, they seemed to glow that impossible blue I remembered from Mission City.
"Right," I managed, trying to keep my voice light. "Because my dad's beat-up Chevelle is totally on someone's radar. Got it. Very cryptic. A mysterious warning."
His lips twitched into that not-quite-smile again. "You'd be surprised."
I stepped out into the night air, clutching my sketchbook like a shield. The Camaro's engine rumbled once—a sound that felt weirdly like goodbye—before Brooks pulled away, the yellow paint gleaming under the streetlights before disappearing around the corner.
I stood there for a moment, flipping through my sketches of him. Something about them felt off, like my pencil had captured details my brain hadn't quite processed yet.
"Well," I muttered to myself, starting the walk home, "at least now I have something interesting to tell my therapist besides 'still talking to Dad's car.'"
The faint echo of an engine—not quite normal, not quite mechanical—followed me all the way home.