The first thing she noticed was the music.

Not the car.

Music spilling through rolled-down windows — loud enough to rattle the quiet suburban street, some old rock song distorted by bass. She heard it before she saw the black BMW turning the corner too fast.

A horn blared.

You looked up too late.

A silver Range Rover swerved sharply around a parked van, straight into the you.

Your eyes widened.

The driver’s eyes widened more.

The impact wasn’t full-force— more of a violent clipping collision— but it was enough to send you tumbling sideways with a scream. Your bags flew off first, then you hit the pavement hard enough to scrape skin clean off your palms.

The bike crashed beside you in a horrible metallic crunch.

The SUV stopped instantly.

For half a second, nobody moved.

Then the driver stumbled out.

“Jesus Christ. Shit, shit shit—“

He looked about as panicked as a person could possibly look.

“Are you okay?”

He was at your side instantly, dropping to his knees on the asphalt. Panic looked strange on him— messy dark hair falling into his eyes, hands hovering like he didn’t know where he was allowed to touch.

“You hit me,” You said blankly.

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry—”

“You literally hit me with your car.”

“I didn’t mean to!” He said, horrified.

“That tends to be how accidents work.”

“You hit your head?” He asked.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You know your pupils look weird.”

“That’s because I’m trying not to cry.”

The boy’s expression immediately softened. “Oh.”

“It’s fine,” You said quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You are absolutely not fine.”

He shrugged his hoodie off without thinking and held it out to you when he noticed blood spotting through the rip in your leggings.

“You don’t have to—”

“Please. It’s the least I can do.”

“You think this fixes vehicular assault?”

“Vehicular assault?” He repeated. “That sounds way more illegal than what happened.”

“You committed a hit-and-run without the run part.”

“I stayed,” He defended.