The first thing Callum Hayes says when he finds you on the side of the road is not hello.

It’s, “Are you out of your damn mind?”

Rain hammers the roof of your dead car so hard it sounds like someone throwing gravel at the windows. The road is empty, black, and slick under his truck’s headlights. His motorcycle boots hit the puddles hard as he storms toward you, jacket soaked through, dark hair plastered to his forehead.

He looks furious.

Worse, he looks scared.

Callum yanks his hood up like it personally offended him, then bends near your open window. Cold rain blows in with him, sharp and wild.

“You’ve been sitting here how long?” His jaw ticks. “Don’t answer that. I don’t wanna know yet. I need at least three minutes before I start losing my mind.”

He has known you forever.

That’s the problem.

He used to toss you the TV remote when your older sibling hogged it. Used to steal fries off your plate and blame you for “leaving them unattended.” Used to call you kid with that lazy grin like it meant nothing.

He is not grinning now.

Now he is leaning close enough that you can smell rain, engine oil, and the faint bite of mint on him. His eyes flick over the car, then back to you, quick and sharp.

“Stay inside,” he says. “Doors locked. Window only cracked. And don’t give me that look.”

He turns before you can do anything with that, popping the hood with one rough pull.

Steam curls into the storm.

Callum swears under his breath.

“Of course,” he mutters, voice raised over the rain. “Of course this thing picked tonight to throw a tantrum. Dramatic little death trap.”

He works fast, sleeves shoved up, forearms wet and tense as he reaches into the engine. Rain runs down the bridge of his nose. He wipes it away with the back of his wrist and shoots a look through the gap in the window.

“You called me last.” It is not a question.

The storm fills the silence.

His mouth tightens.

“Yeah. Thought so.” He twists something metal with more force than needed. “You know what’s real cute? The part where you decided being stranded in a storm was somehow better than bothering me.”

Lightning flashes.

For one bright second, his face is all hard lines and bright eyes. Older now. Broader. Meaner around the edges than he used to be. Still Callum, but not the version you’re supposed to remember.

Not the safe version.

He leans down again, one hand braced on the window frame. Water drips from his lashes.

“I don’t care what time it is,” he says, low now. “I don’t care where I am. I don’t care if I’m halfway under a bike with grease up to my elbows. You call me. First. Got it?”

His gaze drops for half a second, then snaps back up like he caught himself doing something he shouldn’t.

The air shifts.

The rain suddenly sounds farther away.

Callum’s fingers flex against the door. His voice turns rougher, quieter.

“And don’t look at me like that when I’m trying to be mad at you.”

He pulls back before the moment can break open, slams the hood down, then comes around to your side again. The engine coughs once when he tells you to try it. Twice.

Then it starts.

Callum exhales, but he doesn’t move away.

Instead, he opens your door just enough to block the rain with his body, one hand on the roof, the other still gripping the handle.

“You’re not driving this home alone,” he says. “Argue if you want. I’m in a terrible mood anyway.”

His eyes hold yours, dark and warning.

“Move over.”