Zara’s POV


The rain doesn’t bother me much.


It’s the city’s way of crying without making a scene—fast, cold, relentless. Fitting, really. I wrap my jacket tighter and dart across the empty intersection, camera slung over my shoulder, my boots soaked and my patience wearing thin.


Then headlights.

Bright. Fast. Too close.


Shit.


A horn blares, tires screech, and for half a second, I see the flash of silver before I freeze. My heart jumps into my throat—

—but the car stops.


Inches from me.


I stumble back onto the curb, breathing hard. The door swings open and some guy jumps out. Tall, broad, dark hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. His voice cuts through the downpour.


“Are you out of your damn mind?”


I blink at him. “Me?”


“You ran out in front of me!”


“You were speeding!”


We stare at each other—me, dripping and fuming; him, looking like he regrets every decision that led to this moment. And somehow, through the adrenaline and anger, I notice his eyes. Calm. Controlled. Like he’s used to chaos.


“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now.


“I’m fine,” I snap, brushing past him. “Just trying not to die tonight.”


“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters.


I shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “Maybe try driving like a sane person next time?”


He runs a hand through his wet hair, sighs. “Maybe try looking both ways.”


We stand there in the rain, neither of us moving. I should walk away. I always do. But something about him—his stillness, the way his eyes linger just a second too long—makes me pause.


He glances at my camera, the strap soaked and fraying. “You a photographer?”


“Something like that.”


A beat. Then, he nods toward the passenger door. “I can give you a ride.”


I laugh. “Seriously? You almost killed me and now you want to kidnap me?”


He smirks. “Not exactly a glowing review. But no. Just offering a ride.”


I should say no. I will say no. Any sane person would say no.


“Where are you headed?” I ask instead.


I slide into the passenger seat, the scent of leather and something faintly spicy wrapping around me as the door clicks shut. The warmth is instant, but the silence between us is louder than the rain still pounding on the windshield.


Noah slides back in behind the wheel, glances at me once, then pulls off like he didn’t almost commit vehicular manslaughter five minutes ago.


“You don’t look like the type to accept rides from strangers,” he says, eyes fixed on the road.


“I’m not,” I reply, watching the city blur past the window. “You don’t look like the type to offer them.”


“I’m not.”


“Great,” I mutter. “So we’re both doing something stupid.”


He actually chuckles—a low, unexpected sound that settles somewhere under my skin.


“Name?” he asks, like this is a normal conversation between two people who didn’t meet by near-death.


“Zara,” I say, cautious. “Yours?”


He hesitates for half a second. “Noah.”


I let the name roll around in my head. Noah. It fits. Steady, calm. Biblical in a city full of sins.


“What were you doing out here?” he asks.


“Working,” I say, motioning to my camera. “Shooting a gig. Indie band. You wouldn’t know them.”


He nods like he doesn’t care either way, but still asks, “That what you do full-time?”


“Depends on how many gigs pay in cash and don’t cancel last-minute.”


A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “You sound like someone who’s used to getting let down.”


I look at him then—really look at him. Clean jawline, tired eyes, hands gripping the steering wheel like they’ve held more than they should.


“You sound like someone who knows what that feels like,” I fire back.


He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t deny it either.


We drive in silence for a while, the kind that feels less like discomfort and more like two people trying not to drown in their own thoughts. I could get out now—ask him to drop me at the next light. But I don’t.


“Where should I drop you?” he asks finally.


“Somewhere near Halley Street. I’ll walk from there.”


He nods.


When he pulls over, I reach for the door handle, then pause. “Thanks for… not killing me.”


He smiles slightly. “You’re welcome.”


I open the door, step out into the misting rain, then lean down and glance back in. “Hey, Noah?”


“Yeah?”


“You still drive like crap.”


His laugh follows me down the sidewalk.


And for some reason I can’t explain, I’m already hoping I’ll see him again.

My fingers are stiff by the time I unlock the door to my apartment. The city chill follows me in like an uninvited guest. I kick it shut with my heel, drop my camera bag on the chair, and stand in the middle of the tiny space, dripping on my rug.


It’s not much—a studio with old pipes, squeaky floorboards, and a radiator that only works when it feels like it—but it’s mine.


I peel off my soaked jacket and toss it over the back of a chair. The silence here is familiar. Not comforting exactly, but at least it's honest. The kind of quiet that doesn’t expect anything from you.


I move on autopilot: kettle on, lights low, a mismatched blanket draped over my shoulders. I change into an old hoodie and thick socks before curling up in my spot on the couch.


The rain drums softly against the windows now. I pull my knees to my chest and let my head fall back, watching shadows flicker on the ceiling.


I should be thinking about editing tonight’s photos. Or the bills on the counter. Or my sister’s voice from earlier, telling me Dad’s drinking again and pretending it’s not a problem.


But instead, I’m thinking about him.


About the car. His voice. That damn stillness in his eyes like he’s been through hell and learned how to look calm while it burned.


No name exchange. No number. Just a moment.


And maybe that’s better. Cleaner.


I let the thought fade with the steam rising from my chipped mug, then curl deeper into the blanket like I can hide from the world.


There’s nothing to miss.


But I still do.