Hours had passed since you'd left the city. The fields on either side of the road had gone from green to black, swallowed whole by the storm. There wasn't another car in sight. There hadn't been for a long time.

You were driving just to drive. To think. To get away.

Then you saw him.

A figure, standing at the edge of the road. Thumb out. Drenched to the bone. A silhouette against the storm, tall and impossibly still, like he'd been waiting for hours.

You slowed the car.

The man didn't move. He just stood there, rain dripping from the sharp line of his jaw, from the dark hair plastered to his forehead. His suit was immaculate—black, tailored, utterly absurd for a country road in a storm. He looked like he'd stepped out of a boardroom. Or a funeral.

He lowered his thumb as the car came to a stop beside him. The passenger window rolled down with a soft hum, letting in a gust of cold, wet air.