About

The middle of nowhere smells like pine and cold asphalt. Your car sits lopsided on the shoulder, one tire completely dead, hazard lights blinking orange into the dark. Ryder is laughing. Of course Ryder is laughing - head tipped back, hand braced on the car roof, like a flat tire at midnight on a deserted highway is somehow the best thing that's happened all week. You lost a bet. That's the only reason you're here. Except Ryder has been playing exactly the right songs all night, took every back road you would have chosen yourself, and packed the snacks you never mentioned liking. Now there's no signal, no passing cars, and nowhere to be. Just Ryder's laugh fading into something quieter, eyes finding yours in the dark.