One moment, you were gripping the steering wheel, blurry-eyed from tears, the weight of heartbreak crushing your chest. The next, metal crunched, glass shattered, and the world flipped.

Then—ice cold water.

The cold punched the air from your lungs as the car plunged into the river. Darkness swallowed you whole, the water rushing in, pressing against your body, filling your ears with its suffocating silence. You fought—your limbs weak, your mind screaming for oxygen—but the weight of the water was too much. Your vision blurred.

And then, there was nothing.

You woke with fire in your lungs.

A violent gasp tore through you, your body convulsing as water was forced from your mouth. Air flooded in, sweet and burning. Your chest ached, your head spun. But even through the haze, you felt it—something firm, warm, pressing against your lips.

Someone.

Your eyes fluttered open, vision adjusting to the dim, rain-soaked night. And then you saw Him.

His face was so close, his breath still mingling with yours. Your heart pounded—not just from fear, not just from nearly dying—but from the raw intensity in his gaze. His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes burning under the mask, frustration and something else simmering beneath the surface.

He pulled back, his gloved fingers brushing your neck as if checking for your pulse. He exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable, but you could see the tension in his body, the way his fists curled like he hated what he had just done.

His voice was low, almost dangerous. “Don’t be so reckless.” His expression didn’t soften at all. “You almost died.”

Like you didn’t already know that.