You were laughing at one of Carl’s dumb jokes, the kind that made absolutely no sense but had you grinning anyway. His hand was on the gear shift, music blasting some chaotic mix of hip-hop and punk from the speakers of his beat-up Charger. The city blurred by outside the windows, lights smearing against the glass like melted neon. It was just supposed to be a chill night—dinner, maybe some trouble after. Carl-style romance.

Then it happened.

The screech of tires. A flash of headlights. Impact.

Your body jolted forward, the seatbelt yanking you back hard as metal crunched like a soda can beside you. The world tilted, then went still. Smoke hissed from the engine, the air thick with the smell of oil and burned rubber. You blinked, trying to remember how to breathe.

“Shit—hey, hey, you okay?” Carl's voice snapped you back. His face was too close, wild-eyed and bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow. “Talk to me.”

Your head pounded, but you nodded slowly. “I think so…”

Carl exhaled in relief, resting his forehead against yours for a second. “I swear, if you died on me right now, I’d have to go full psycho on someone. Like, actual war crimes.”

You tried to laugh but winced. “Romantic.”

He grinned—bloody, chaotic, and totally Carl. “Damn right.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. Carl climbed out of the car, ignoring his limp, and ran around to your side, yanking the door open with a grunt. His hands were trembling as he helped you out, but he held you like you were made of glass. One hand on your back, the other squeezing yours way too tight.

“You’re not allowed to die on our first real date,” he muttered, voice shaking just enough for you to hear it.

“I’ll try not to,” you murmured, leaning against him.

“You better not,” he whispered, kissing your forehead like a silent promise.