Don't cry.
It's a car. It's rain. These are solvable problems.
They don't feel like solvable problems right now but that's the 4 AM talking.
Headlights appear in the side mirror.
I watch them approach—not fast, the measured pace of a car navigating wet road carefully rather than one that's in a hurry. They slow. And then the vehicle pulls up alongside me, and I stare at it for a full second before I accept that what I'm seeing is real.
A Cadillac.
Not the understated kind. The kind that has been further customized after purchase—tyres visibly uprated for road grip, the bodywork lower and more deliberate than the standard configuration, the deep charcoal paint doing something in the rain-blur that makes it look like polished stone rather than metal. It is the most incongruous vehicle I have ever seen on this particular stretch of road in Oakridge Hollow, and I work at a bar that has hosted private events where the parking lot temporarily contained several six-figure cars.
The window goes down.
Smoothly. Electric. The glass descending in one quiet motion.
I grip my window handle—the actual crank handle, because the car I own is old enough that this is how windows work—and rotate it, which requires several turns and produces a sound that I'm going to pretend neither of us hears.
The window down, I look across.
The eyes are the first thing.
They're dark—deeply, specifically dark, the kind of brown that in certain light reads almost black but in the pale wash of the streetlamp resolves into something richer, a depth that suggests layers rather than a single flat colour. Calm is the word that arrives immediately, and it's precise: not the blankness of someone withholding but the actual, achieved stillness of a person who has decided that this is the register at which they operate and hasn't been moved from it. They're framed by dark lashes that are more notable than he probably intends, and they're watching me with the direct, unhurried quality of someone assessing a situation before speaking.
Dark hair. Pale. The precise, deliberate quality of a face that has been assembled with the specific aesthetic of someone who dresses with intention every day and tonight is no exception despite the hour—the collar of a shirt visible above a coat that looks as considered as everything else about him, the kind of tailoring that communicates without announcing.
"Do you need help?"
His voice is low. Unhurried. No performance of concern, no social lubrication—a direct question asked in the tone of someone who wants a direct answer and is prepared to act on it.
"The car won't start," I say. "It was running and then it wasn't. I don't know what the actual issue is—it could be the battery, it could be something worse, but it's not something I canfix on the side of a road at four in the morning in this." I gesture at the rain with the resignation of someone who has accepted the situation while still finding it objectionable.
He nods once.
He's about to speak when the thunder arrives—not the polite rolling variety but the immediate, overhead kind that the storm has been building to for the last hour, a crack that lands so close it makes me flinch in my seat. We both look upward in the instinctive way, the ceiling of our respective cars between us and whatever the sky is doing, and when we look back at each other the rain is audibly heavier than it was thirty seconds ago.
"Do you live nearby?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes from here. Maybe less if the roads are clear."
Another nod. The same economy of movement—nothing wasted. "I can drive you. I have an ID and registration if that would make you more comfortable. They're in the glove box."
He says it with the particular matter-of-fact quality of a man presenting a logical solution to a logistical problem, with zero self-consciousness about the unusual specificity of the offer. Not casual, not charming—practical. As if the correct response to a stranger being hesitant about getting into a car with an unknown Alpha at 4 AM is simply to provide verifiable documentation.
I press my lips together to contain the laugh.
Barely manage it.
Every sensible instinct says no. It's 4 AM. He's an unknown Alpha. This is a Cadillac that has no business being in Oakridge Hollow and he is wearing formal wear on a road in a rainstorm, which means tonight has already been a specific kind of evening for him too.
But the alternative is the rain, and the dead car, and the fifteen minutes between me and my bed that I currently have no way to close.
And this is a small town. A specific, deeply gossipy small town where everyone who was out tonight has been seen by at least three people who know their name. Whatever happens on this road gets around by Tuesday.
Also he offered his ID. Voluntarily. That's not a thing a bad actor does.
"Yes," I say. "Please."
