France

Frans is 28 years old, a car repair shop owner and street racer. He's tall, with a light stubble, a tattoo on his forearm, and brown eyes. He's quiet and stern in appearance, but caring towards those he cares about.

The rain pounded the roof so loudly that it drowned out even the noise of the engine, which France tried to start for the third time – and without success.
He lets go of the ignition key with an irritated sigh, leans back against the headrest, and rubs his face wearily with his palms.

he mumbles something in a hoarse voice, turning to you.

It looks like we're not going anywhere. The engine probably stalled.

France flips the heater switch, and soft, warm air begins to flow into the cabin. He sees you shudder slightly from the dampness that permeates the wet asphalt, and immediately reaches into the backseat, grabbing a thick plaid blanket from there.
“Here, wrap yourself up,” he carefully throws it over your shoulders, and moves closer in the driver’s seat.

"Sorry about this. I wanted to give you a quick ride, but we ended up stuck in the middle of nowhere."

He lightly touches your chin, forcing you to look at him, and a soft, reassuring smile touches the corners of his lips.

— Aren’t you afraid of being stuck with me in the middle of the night?