One car. One dark road. One quiet man with a toolset and secrets.
It was meant to be a silent drive.
The sun was liquefying over the Los Angeles horizon, a golden smear illuminating through the glass towers, casting everything in that brief, haunting beauty that came before darkness. Arianna Skye Lopez clenched the wheel of her vintage black Jaguar, her wrist still marked with a vague shimmer from last night's gala gown.
She had insisted on driving herself.
No security. No driver. No, Emily.
Just a quick detour. One hour before her next shoot call time. A drive through Laurel Canyon to clear her head.
But then—a sound.
A cough from the engine. A sputter. A low, violent stutter.
And silence.
The car glided to the edge of a quiet road, silhouette already swallowing the sidewalk.
Arianna let out some air and hit the steering wheel with her palm. "Not now."
She tried the ignition again.
Dead.
The canyon road was quiet. No honking. No streetlights. Just the soft hum of the wind nudging through eucalyptus trees and her own rising heartbeat.
She climbed out, stilettos in hand this time, wearing loose black pants and an oversized cardigan draping over her frame like armour . Her skin glowed faintly from the sunset's final kiss. Even stranded, she looked like a dream someone had drawn too perfectly to be real.
But the dream was breaking.
Then came the sound of another engine.
Subtle. Smooth. A low growl, like something expensive but unpretentious.
A matte black car pulled up behind her. Not a limo. Not paparazzi. Not a fan. Just… a car. And from it, a man stepped out.
No flash. No fanfare.
He looked like quiet tension wrapped in thick soft muscle—193cmtall, calm, wearing a jet-black denim, a worn grey tee, and boots that looked like they belonged in both a garage and a battlefield. His face was clean-shaven but sharp. His eyes? Hard to tell from this distance—but they didn't move frantically. They watched. Measured.
He moved toward her, slow, collected, and yet deliberate, a small toolbox in one hand.
No phone. No camera. No stupid questions.
"Trouble?" he asked, voice low but clear.
Arianna hesitated. Her guard flew up like instinct.
"Yes," she said. Then, with a practised shrug: "But it's being handled."
He gave her a quiet once-over, gaze, respectful, but unreadable.
"No signal out here. You might be waiting a while."
She looked him over now. There is no logo on the car. No branded cap. Just… stillness. And presence.
"You're not a mechanic," she said carefully.
"No," he replied, setting the toolkit down on the curb beside her Jaguar. "But I know how to fix things when they break."
The line lingered longer than it should've.
Arianna blinked. "You just carry tools around for… emergencies?"
His knee smooching the earth beside the car, already unfastening the hood latch. "Some of us still believe in helping people. Even famous ones."
She froze.
He knew who she was.
But he didn't say her name.
Didn't ask for a selfie.
Didn't quote a magazine cover.
Didn't perform.
Minutes moved in silence—except for the quiet work of his hands except for the clink of metal, as well as the occasional test of the battery line.
Skye tilted against the passenger door, arms crossed, watching him like a puzzle she didn't ask for but couldn't stop studying.
Finally, he shut the hood. He wiped his hands on a rag.
"Try it."
She slid into the seat, turned the key.
The engine purred like a beast awakened.
She blinked, stunned. "How did you—?"
"Wasn't dead. Just disconnected."
He gave a small nod, like that explained everything. It didn't.
She stepped out again, this time meeting his eyes—green, she now noticed. But not just green. Deep. Shaded. Mysterious.
"Thank you," she said sincerely.
He picked up the toolkit. "Don't mention it."
"Wait," she called out, realizing she didn't even know his name.
He paused, hand on the door of his car. Then turned, just slightly.
"If it's all the same," he said, voice lower now, "let's not make this a headline."
Then he got in.
Drove off.
No name.
No number.
No explanation.
Just a memory. Already fading like the light.
Arianna stood in the road for a long time after.
And for the first time in months, maybe years…
She wasn't entirely sure who had saved who.
The studio gallery was already buzzing when she arrived.
Stylists ran like stylized ants, arms full of silk and fur. Lighting assistants adjusted massive LED panels with the urgency of medics. A makeup artist waved at her from the beauty station with a face full of hope and three shades of foundation ready.
But Arianna… floated.
She walked in, wearing a fresh black jumpsuit and her usual mask of composure, but inside—she wasn't here. Not fully.
Her mind was still on that road.
That dusky hour.
That quiet man.
She took a seat near the massive arched window, waiting for hair and wardrobe to begin. She didn't pull out her phone. Didn't scroll. Just sat, elbows on her thighs, gazing through the glass at the Los Angeles skyline, bleeding into early evening.
He didn't ask for a picture.
Didn't ask for my name, either.
Didn't even flinch when I told him off.
She let out a short, unheard breath.
"He was just… one out of this universe," she whispered to herself, almost incredulous.
"Like he existed on a different wavelength. Not needing anything. Not selling anything."
It made no sense.
In her world, everyone wanted something. Attention, clout, a quote for their blog, a brush with her beauty, a photo for proof.
But him?
Just helped. And left.
She didn't know his name.
Didn't want to admit she cared.
But her hands were still resting in her lap like they remembered his voice. Calm. Level. Real.
She barely noticed the noise of the studio until a sharper voice sliced through it all.
"Alright, alright," barked August Heathe, her manager, as he strode in through the double doors, phone in one hand, tablet in the other. "The shoot will be in thirty!"
His voice struck her like a wave of cold water.
Ms Lopez blinked. The dream cracked and fell away.
"Get the lights reset!" August barked to the crew. "Wardrobe, we're starting with the Dior silk first. Hair, keep it soft but fierce—think wind-kissed, not tornado victim."
He spotted Arianna sitting near the window and narrowed his eyes. "You okay?"
She looked up, the professional mask slipping neatly back into place. "Of course."
"You look like you're thinking."
"I'm always thinking," she said, standing. "That's why you pay me, right?"
He chuckled dryly. "I
Uhm, yeah, and this is because you're the only thing in this town still worth selling."
Arianna gave him a faint smile, but her mind was already getting distracted again.
Not far this time. Just a flicker of memory: the canyon light on his jaw. The way he hadn't tried to shrink or impress. How strange it was to meet someone who didn't orbit her.
She shook it off, letting the studio take her again.
Let the lenses come.
Let the cameras flash.
Let the world devour its favourite fantasy.
But inside, something new had been planted.
And she had no idea if it would bloom…
or burn.