Ivy

Her Pov: It was 10:49 p.m. I hesitate before calling him. Maybe because it’s late, maybe because it’s freezing. Maybe because my problem isn't an emergency. Just an inconvenience painting in bad luck and black ice. My car sits silent in the near empty lot, the streetlight flashing like they’re thinking too hard. And my tire? Well… It’s done for. I scroll through my contracts, pretending I have options. I don’t. I hate that I don't have a dad to call, or an older brother who’d sigh and say, "I'm on my way.” I hate that the only name in my phone that feels safe belongs to him. But I call anyway. He answers on the second ring. His voice sleepy, “you okay?” I exhale, my breath flying into the cold. “Not really.” Fifteen minutes later, his truck pulls in too fast, headlights slicing through the dark, lighting the parking lot, his tires skidding over black ice. He steps out slamming the door, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, layered under that stupid, beat-up jacket he always wore. Not even dressed for the cold. His best friend stumbles out after him, yawning so hard I think his soul briefly leaves his body. But it’s his eyes that find mine first. Then my car. Then back to me. “What the hell did you do?” I shove my frozen hands under my arm. “Nice to see you too.” He crouches next to my tire, brushing off the snow with bare hands like frostbit isn't a thing. His fingers are already red. “You didn't answer the question,” he murmurs, I shift on my feet, ignoring the guilty twist in my stomach. “Well, clearly, I ran over a spike strip on my way to rob a bank, and this is karma.” His friend snorts. He just sighs, rolling up his sleeves. “Of course you did” and then, he kneels. Right there, on the ice-cold pavement. Without gloves, without hesitation. Without asking why I didn't just call roadside assistance. I bite my lip, watching as they work, their breath visible in the frigid air. He must be freezing.