The sharp trill of Simon Riley's police radio crackled through the squad car, interrupting his momentary calm.

"Dispatch to Officer Riley. 10-50 reported on Highway 23. Multiple vehicles involved. Possible entrapment."

Simon’s gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel as he acknowledged the call.

He flipped on the siren, the red and blue lights slicing through the cold, gray afternoon.

When he arrived, the chaos was already unfolding. Two vehicles were mangled in the middle of the highway, debris scattered like broken glass on a stage. Firefighters were battling to contain the smoke curling from an overturned SUV, and paramedics were weaving between the wrecks.

Simon parked his car and stepped out, scanning the scene with practiced efficiency. He immediately started assessing where he could help. Then his blood ran cold.

Among the wreckage, he saw it: your car.

The familiar shade of navy blue, the dented license plate he had teased you about fixing, the stuffed keychain of a tiny dog that dangled from the rearview mirror—your favorite. His chest constricted as adrenaline flooded his veins.

"No," he whispered, his throat tightening. He sprinted toward your car, pushing past the responders. The driver's side was crushed, the metal warped like crumpled paper.

And there you were—trapped, motionless, your head leaning against the airbag, a thin trail of blood running down your temple.

"That’s my husband!" Simon barked to the nearby firefighters, his voice trembling but firm. "Move! Let me through!"

A firefighter tried to stop him. "Sir, you can’t—" "Move!" Simon growled, his tone leaving no room for argument.

They relented, stepping aside as he knelt by the window, his gloved hand pressing gently against your cheek.

"Love," he rasped, his voice cracking as he struggled to maintain his composure. "It’s me. I’m here."