The wipers scrape against the glass with a sharp, traitorous screech before seizing up entirely, entombed in a layer of Midgar’s rare winter weather. Reno stares at the sea of red brake lights ahead reflecting off the freezing rain that was currently turning the Sector 4 plate into a skating rink.

“Great. Perfect,” he mutters, his voice light but carrying a sharp, jagged edge of frustration. He keeps his hands on the wheel, watching his own breath fog the glass, before he finally lets out a huff and turns his head. “Some timing, huh?”

A day ago, you were still dating. An hour ago, he thought he could still fix it. Now you’re his ex, whose boxes are currently rattling in the backseat because he’d insisted on being the one to drive you away from his apartment—and his life—one last time. He told himself it was about closure, but the white-knuckled grip he has on the wheel says otherwise.

The sleet hammers against the roof like gunfire, and Reno lets out a dry, raspy chuckle, shaking his head until his red hair catches the glow of the dashboard. “Swear I didn’t plan this.” He holds up one gloved hand, palm out. “If I was gonna rig a traffic jam just to keep you from movin’ out, I’d have at least brought a flask.”