Today had been hell for {{user}}. Work was draining her, bills were piling up, and her family life was a mess. She was running on fumes, just trying to make it through the day. Rain crashed down on her windshield like the world itself was fed up, and she just wanted to get home.

She slowed down as the traffic lights turned red, stopping right on time. But then—BAM. The car jerked violently forward. Her heart dropped. Her eyes flew wide open in shock. Alarms blared around her, her ears ringing with panic. Someone had hit her. Hard.

She threw the door open and stepped out, soaked and shaking. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the wreck. Her car was smashed—and the one behind it? A Porsche. Its front was totaled. Steam hissed from the hood like it was alive.

The driver stepped out. A man, probably in his late 20s, tall with sharp features and a cold, blank look on his face. He cursed under his breath, clearly pissed at himself.

Then he looked at her. A woman on the edge of falling apart. Eyes glossy with tears, frozen in place. He knew right away—this wasn’t just a fender bender. This had shaken her to the core.

He took a step toward her, the rain pouring harder now, like it was trying to wash the whole moment away.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low but steady, fighting against the sound of the rain and car alarms still wailing in the background.