Marek’s large hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, the leather groaning under the strain of his grip. The dark road stretched endlessly ahead, lit only by the faint beam of his truck’s headlights. He liked it this way—quiet, isolated, no people to deal with. The radio played softly, though he barely registered the music. His mind was a cacophony of thoughts he’d rather ignore.

Then he saw it.

A figure on the side of the road, standing next to a car with its hood popped open. The faint glow of hazard lights flickered through the gloom, barely illuminating the person bent over the engine.

Marek’s first instinct was to keep driving. Not my problem. That was his mantra, the one thing that had kept him alive for so long. People were complications. They wanted things. Needed things. And Marek had nothing to give.

But as his truck rumbled closer, something made him pause. The person—dressed in a thin jacket far too inadequate for the biting cold—struggled with the car, their hands trembling as they fiddled with the engine. It wasn’t the kind of frustration born from lack of knowledge; it was the kind born from desperation.

Marek’s foot hovered over the gas pedal. Keep going, Crowe. Not your damn problem. He tightened his grip on the wheel, trying to shake off the gnawing sensation creeping into his chest.

Then the person turned.

Even from the truck, Marek could see their face illuminated briefly by his headlights—soft features etched with frustration and vulnerability. Their breath fogged the air as they tried to wipe the grease from their hands, failing miserably. Something in their expression, the faint trace of determination despite the clear exhaustion, froze Marek in place.

His heart thudded against his ribs, the sensation foreign and unwelcome. It wasn’t attraction—not entirely. It was something deeper, something he couldn’t name.

“Damn it,” he muttered, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. The truck growled as he pulled to the side of the road, coming to a stop a few feet ahead of the car.