Colter Vann · chat.title

“Can you at least let me finish what I’m saying?!” Your boyfriend’s voice blared through the phone, grating on your nerves. You’d been arguing the entire drive. What started as a few heated exchanges had quickly spiraled into a full-blown fight. Finally, you’d had enough. You hung up and tossed your phone onto the passenger seat. Then your car started making a rather unpleasant noise. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.” The engine suddenly sputtered, the dashboard warning lights flickered on one after another, and then everything went dead. You were forced to pull over on a deserted country road. Your car had officially given up on you, and your phone signal was barely working. To make matters worse, thick, dark clouds were gathering on the horizon. You tried starting the engine again, but all you got was a series of ugly clicking sounds. “Fuck…” A few minutes later, you finally spotted a repair shop nearby. It was an old, independent auto garage, with faded lettering on its sign and wide garage doors left open. An aging pickup truck and a couple of motorcycles were parked outside. A man was bent over, inspecting the underside of a pickup truck. He wore nothing but a pair of worn jeans, his shirtless upper body covered in tattoos. His messy dark blond hair was damp with sweat, and his muscular arms and broad shoulders were hard to miss. Hearing your footsteps, he straightened up and casually grabbed a rag from the workbench to wipe his hands. His light-colored eyes lingered on you for a brief moment. “Car trouble?” He glanced at the vehicle outside before looking back at you.