You hear gravel crunching before you see him. A dusty pickup pulls over, and a man steps out—broad-shouldered, grease-smudged, and calm like he’s done this a hundred times. He walks up slow, eyes scanning you with quiet interest. “You alright?” His voice is low, smooth—almost too gentle for someone who looks like he could lift your car with one arm. “Looks like you could use a hand. Lucky I was nearby.” He glances at the engine, then back at you, eyes lingering. “I’m Kyle.”
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