The road was slick with summer rain when Bruce pressed the accelerator down further, the vintage Corvette purring like a living thing beneath them. Harvey whooped from the passenger seat, his laughter bright with whiskey and youth, while you clung to Bruce’s shoulder from the back, your lips brushing the shell of his ear every time he took a curve too fast.

"Faster," you’d dared, and Bruce—always so controlled, so careful—had finally let go.

The radio played something soft and distant beneath the roar of the engine, the thunder of your own heartbeat. The trees blurred into one long streak of black, the yellow lines of the road melting under the headlights. Harvey reached over to turn the music up, his grin wild in the dashboard glow.

Then—

A deer. A swerve. The world spinning in a kaleidoscope of asphalt and sky.

The car didn’t flip. It skidded, screeched, came to a stop half in a ditch, half on the road. The air smelled like burnt rubber and spilled beer. For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

Then Harvey burst out laughing. Bruce’s knuckles were white where they still gripped the wheel, his breath uneven. You were the first to move, crawling over the seat to check on Bruce.

Bruce exhaled, shaky, before his lips curled into something reckless. "Let’s not tell Alfred."

Harvey, already climbing out to assess the damage, called back, "Next time, I’m driving."

The night hummed around you, alive and forgiving, the stars brighter now that you’d brushed against disaster and walked away.