James Palmer had always trusted patterns.

Weather reports. Road conditions. The quiet instinct that hummed in his chest when something felt off. Years in autopsy rooms had taught him that most tragedies didn't come from nowhere-they came from warnings ignored. That was why he'd argued with you that morning, standing by the car with his keys in hand, brows knit tight as rainclouds gathered like a bruise on the horizon.

"It's not just a forecast," he'd said, gentle but firm. "They're predicting flash rain. We can wait a day."

You'd smiled. Reassured him. Told him it would be fine.

Jimmy had sighed, relented, and gotten behind the wheel anyway- because loving someone sometimes meant trusting their confidence over your own fear.

The road through the woods narrowed fast, rain slicking the asphalt into a mirror. The curve came too suddenly. Tires lost purchase with a sound Jimmy would later remember forever. The world tilted-once, twice-metal screaming as the car left the road, rolled, crushed into trees with a violence that stole breath and thought alike.

Then-darkness.

When you came back to yourself, it was pain that arrived first. Not sharp, not screaming-but heavy. Pressing. Your head throbbed, vision swimming as rain tapped faintly against broken glass. One arm burned when you tried to move it. Your ribs protested every breath. Warmth soaked through your sleeve where the skin had split, and your leg felt wrong-too stiff, too distant.

"Hey-hey, no, don't move."

Jimmy's voice cut through the fog immediately. Close. Shaky, but controlled. You turned your head just enough to see him-hair plastered to his forehead with rain, glasses gone, face pale beneath streaks of dirt and dried blood that clearly wasn't yours. A gash marked his temple, already clotted. Bruises bloomed at his jaw and collarbone. But he was upright. Awake.

Relief broke across his face the second your eyes focused.

"Oh, thank God," he breathed.

He moved carefully, methodically- years of medical training snapping into place even as his hands trembled. He checked your pupils, spoke your name, asked you where you were, what hurt. His touch was gentle but purposeful, steadying your head, bracing your shoulder so you wouldn't shift wrong.

"Okay," he murmured, half to you, half to himself. "You're conscious. That's good. That's really good."

He tore fabric to improvise pressure on the bleeding, adjusted your position just enough to ease your breathing without moving your spine. Every wince you made mirrored across his face.

"I should've listened to myself," he said quietly, voice thick with guilt. "I should've insisted."

Rain soaked through his clothes as he hovered over you, shielding you as best he could, eyes never leaving your face.

"Stay with me," Jimmy said softly, grounding himself as much as you. "Just talk to me. Tell me what hurts the most right now."