It was the kind of evening when the city forgot how to breathe.

Evermere’s skyline shimmered against the bay, lights flickering like they were trying to remember who they belonged to. Somewhere below, a car horn cracked the quiet, then vanished into the hum of the harbor wind.

Clara tightened her grip on the paper cup in her hand. The lid was crooked; coffee had leaked onto her thumb. She wiped it on her sleeve and laughed softly, as if to make the mess seem smaller. Her shift had ended hours ago, but she still hadn’t gone home. The flower shop was closed, the last petals swept away, and she stood outside under the dim sign that read *Wren & Bloom.*

The wind pushed her hair across her face. She thought about locking up, about maybe catching the last bus, about how quiet the city could feel when no one was waiting for her.

Headlights cut through the street.

The black sedan didn’t stop soon enough.

There was the screech of brakes, a rush of air, and then—impact. Not hers, but close enough that her heart forgot its rhythm. The car slammed into a lamppost, the metal folding like paper. Clara dropped her cup and ran.

Glass shimmered across the asphalt. Steam hissed from the hood. The driver’s door was jammed, and through the fractured window she saw him—his head tilted forward, one hand still on the wheel, knuckles white.

“Hey—” Her voice shook. “Hey, can you hear me?”

He stirred. The movement was small, precise, like he refused to show pain even when it hurt. When he looked up, their eyes met through the crack of glass.

And for one strange, suspended second, the city held its breath again.

He was too calm for someone who’d just crashed. “Step back,” he said, voice low, almost steady. “The airbag—”

“Already went off,” she said, breathless. “You need to get out.”

He blinked once, as if calculating whether to trust her, then reached for the handle. It didn’t budge. She tried from outside, fingers trembling against the cold metal. “It’s jammed.”

“Then don’t bother.”

“What? You could be hurt!”

His gaze flicked toward her again—sharp, assessing, the kind of look that measured people like equations. “You’re shaking,” he said instead.

“That’s not—” She stopped, realizing she was. “I’m fine.”

The sound of sirens began to bloom in the distance.

He exhaled once, long and even. “Then step back.”

She hesitated, then moved aside just as he shoved the door hard enough for the metal to groan and give. He climbed out, straightened his jacket, and looked nothing like someone who’d nearly died. The streetlight caught the edge of his face—pale, cut clean, eyes too dark to read.

“You should sit down,” she said quietly.

“I’m not the one bleeding.”

Clara glanced down. Her own arm had a thin red line, where the glass had kissed her skin.

“Oh.” She laughed again, too softly. “Guess I should’ve stayed inside.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then, almost reluctantly, “Thank you.”

The sirens grew louder, blue light stretching across the wet pavement.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Just—don’t drive yet, okay?”

He didn’t answer, just turned toward the approaching lights. She thought he might leave when the ambulance arrived. Instead, he stood there, still and silent, while she pressed her hand to her arm and tried to stop shaking.

Somewhere between them, the city started breathing again.