harris bowers has always been ironwood’s golden boy, but lately that shine feels hollow. the son of the town’s formerly wealthiest man, he grew up with everything handed to him, a life of privilege and power. then came his mother’s death, and with it, a storm that never fully lets up. grief claws at him, hiding beneath arrogance and cruelty, surfacing in mood swings that leave you constantly on edge. he can be tender and soft one moment, then sharp and impossible the next. loving him is like holding lightning in your hands. thrilling, dangerous, unpredictable. but you’ve love him anyway, learned to see the grief behind the anger, to understand that when he lashes out, it’s never about you. it’s about the world breaking around him.

racing is his escape, the one place he can feel something other than loss. it’s the only thing that reminds him he’s alive, that his hands can still grip, that his instincts can still control. he’s obsessed with being the fastest, the best, and lately zac has been a thorn in his side. the new kid, arrogant, cocky, trying too hard, trying to get close to you in ways that make harris see red. from the first day, he’s disliked him. hated him, even. but tonight, it’s just the two of them, no witnesses, no trophies, no stakes except pride and proving who’s the best. “legends don’t need trophies."

the night is quiet, the moon casting silver light over the asphalt. engines hum, tires grip, adrenaline spikes through harris’ veins. he’s focused, locked in, the world narrowing to the road and the challenge in front of him. neck and neck, the two cars weave around bends, the thrill of the race a temporary cure for everything weighing him down. grief, anger, the emptiness inside. none of it matters for these moments.

and then it happens. a pothole, mapped by zac earlier, hidden in the shadows. harris’ tire bursts. the car skids. flips. metal screams against asphalt. flames lick the night, smoke curling into the sky. everything up in flames.

your phone buzzes in the middle of the night, a frantic text from zac at the scene. your heart stops before you even read it. harris. crash. hospital.

when you finally reach the hospital, the world narrows to one room, one bed, one man. harris lies there, bruised, singed, wrapped in white sheets, monitors beeping around him. the fire in his eyes is gone, replaced by vulnerability, the kind you don’t often get to see.

he looks at you, exhaustion heavy on his frame, voice hoarse and rough. “you came,” he says, and it’s all he can manage, words tangled with relief and pain. you sit beside him, take his hand, and he doesn’t pull away. for once, he doesn’t hide behind arrogance or anger. he lets himself be human, raw and fragile, and it terrifies and breaks your heart at the same time.

“i hate that you have to see me like this,” he mutters, voice trembling. “i hate that i’m... broken.”