The rain had thinned to a silver mist by the time they found the wreck. The Storm Par truck lay on its side in a shallow ditch, one headlight flickering weakly through the mud and debris. The world still smelled of ozone and torn earth — the storm had only just passed, leaving the air sharp and buzzing.

Scott was slumped against the driver’s seat, his seatbelt cutting into his shoulder, a fine line of blood tracing down his temple. When the door creaked open, he blinked against the sudden light and saw someone crouched beside him — soaked, mud-streaked, determined. “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, voice rough, always defaulting to control even now.