The rain came without warning.
One moment, the evening sky had been painted in deep hues of indigo and gold, the last rays of the sun shimmering through cotton clouds. The next, a low rumble cracked across the heavens, and the clouds burst open with an angry downpour. Clara Hastings yelped as fat droplets splattered against her jacket, soaking through the fabric in seconds. She pulled the hood over her head, clutching the strap of her bag tighter.
"Perfect," she muttered, her sneakers splashing against puddles on the uneven pavement. "Just what I needed on my walk home."
The streets were nearly deserted—most people had already taken shelter, retreating into warm houses or ducking into cafés. Clara, however, didn't have such a luxury nearby. Her best friend's apartment, Lila's, was still three blocks away. She quickened her pace, her breath puffing out in uneven huffs as the storm thickened.
Just as she rounded a corner, a sharp glow caught her eye. Headlights blinked through the sheets of rain, illuminating a sleek, black car pulled to the side of the road. Its polished exterior gleamed even under the storm, the kind of car Clara had only ever seen in magazines or movies—something that screamed money and power.
Curiosity made her slow down. A man stood beside the car, tall and broad-shouldered, though partially hidden under an umbrella. His posture was rigid, his movements sharp as he crouched near the front wheel. Clara squinted through the downpour.
A flat tire.
She chewed her lip, hesitating. The stranger didn't look like someone who welcomed help—every line of his body radiated impatience, as though he had better places to be than stranded in the rain. But as she watched him fumble with the spare tire, she noticed his crisp white shirt plastered to his skin, the dark fabric of his trousers damp from kneeling on the wet asphalt. His umbrella lay uselessly propped against the car door, already flipped inside out by the wind.
Clara sighed. "He'll catch pneumonia like that," she mumbled to herself.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she stepped forward.
"Excuse me," she called, raising her voice over the rain. "Do you need some help?"
The man's head snapped up. Even in the dim light, Clara could see his features—striking, sharp, almost sculpted. Dark hair clung to his forehead, and a pair of eyes so piercing and cold they nearly stopped her in her tracks pinned her in place. For a second, she forgot how to breathe.
Then his gaze swept over her, dismissive and cool, as if he'd just been interrupted by something inconvenient.
"I'm fine," he said curtly, his voice low and smooth but carrying a weight that made Clara stiffen.
Her pride pricked instantly. She wasn't some child to be brushed off. Crossing her arms, she raised a brow. "You don't look fine. Do you even know how to change a tire?"
His expression tightened, as though the question offended him. "Of course I do."
"Then why are you still standing in the rain ten minutes later with the wheel jack the wrong way up?" she shot back, gesturing toward the tool at his side.
For a brief moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the hammering rain. Then, surprisingly, the corner of his mouth twitched—not in amusement, but in annoyance. He stood, towering over her, his expensive clothes clinging to every line of his tall frame. Clara tilted her chin up defiantly, refusing to be intimidated.
Finally, with a clipped exhale, he stepped aside. "If you think you can do better, go ahead."
Clara crouched, ignoring the icy water soaking her knees. She might not know much about luxury cars, but she'd helped her uncle fix his old pickup enough times to know the basics. Within minutes, she had the jack properly in place. The man watched silently, his presence heavy like the storm itself.
"See?" she said, breathless but triumphant, as she secured the spare tire. "Not that hard."
His eyes flickered with something unreadable, but his face remained impassive. He extended a hand to help her up, though his grip was brief, as if he regretted the gesture immediately.
"Thanks," he said flatly. No smile. No warmth. Just a single syllable tossed out like an obligation.
Clara blinked, stunned. That was it? She'd knelt in the freezing rain for him, and he couldn't even bother to muster sincerity?
"Unbelievable," she muttered, brushing water and grime from her hands.
The man ignored her irritation, slipping into the driver's seat with fluid precision. The engine purred to life, and before Clara could say another word, the car glided back onto the road, taillights glowing red against the gray curtain of rain.
She stood there, soaked to the bone, staring after him. Her mouth hung open in disbelief.
"Not even a real thank you," she fumed. "What kind of man—ugh!"
By the time she reached her apartment, she was drenched and shivering. Lila was waiting at the door, wrapped in a blanket with a mug of cocoa in hand. Her brown eyes widened as she took in Clara's state.
"What on earth happened to you? Did you wrestle a raincloud?"
Clara groaned, kicking off her soggy sneakers. "Don't ask."
"Clara Hayes," Lila drawled, "that tone means you've got a story. Spill."
She didn't stop until she'd dragged Clara into the living room, plopping her on the couch and thrusting the steaming mug into her hands. The warmth spread instantly through Clara's frozen fingers, but her frustration hadn't melted yet.
"Fine," Clara said, blowing on the cocoa. "I saw this guy stuck with a flat tire. He looked like a lost puppy—well, a very grumpy, designer-suit-wearing puppy. So I offered to help."
Lila's brows shot up. "You? Helping a stranger in the middle of a storm? Clara, that's literally how horror movies start."
"Oh, please. He wasn't a murderer. Just a jerk." Clara took a sip before continuing. "He barely spoke, acted like I was inconveniencing him by being nice. Then after I fixed his tire—fixed it—he muttered a pathetic little 'thanks' and drove off."
Lila burst out laughing. "Wait. You changed the tire for him?"
"Don't laugh! He clearly didn't know what he was doing."
"I'm not laughing at that," Lila said, grinning ear to ear. "I'm laughing because you're fuming like he insulted your grandmother. Who cares if some rich snob can't say thank you?"
Clara set down her mug with a scowl. "It's basic manners! I mean, how hard is it to show a little gratitude?"
Lila leaned back, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Mark my words, with your luck, you'll probably see him again."
Clara scoffed. "Ha. If I'm that unlucky, I'll move cities."
But as she curled under the blanket later, her damp hair spilling across the pillow, Clara couldn't shake the image of his cold eyes. Eyes that looked like they'd seen too much and cared too little. She told herself it didn't matter, that he was just another arrogant stranger in a world full of them.
And yet, as the storm raged on outside, she found herself wondering who he was.