#2019 Honda Civic Blue

[shallowseeker]

Sam likes to appear nondescript.

"Normal," even. He likes to hide in plain sight. Here's Sam's preferred vehicle choice discussed in season 4x21:

DEAN: He's switching up. Any other cars stolen in Jamestown? BOBBY: Two. 1999 Honda Civic, blue. Nice and anonymous, like Sam likes. DEAN: What was the other one? BOBBY: White oh-five Escalade with custom rims. It's a neon sign. DEAN: You're right. He'd never take that. Which is exactly what he did.

And here's a Honda Civic, circa 1999. Sam prefers to appear "trustworthy," which is why he favors blue, the color that you wear in court to provoke feelings of Stability, Practicality, and Innocence.

///

Therefore, we can reasonably assume that the blue 2019 Ford Fiesta is Sam's car. Plus, it has awesome gas mileage, and Sam is secure in his masculinity and practicality.

[111moonstone111]

Top Gun mav characters and what car they would drive

no explaination other than i like cars and top gun mav, also i am qualified to make this as my father is a mechanic who was in the navy.

Bob: Grey 2018 Honda Accord

Phoenix: Tan 2015 Jeep Renegade

Hangman: Green 2013 Jeep Wrangler Sport

Coyote: Blue 2020 Subaru WRX

Payback: Black 2019 Honda Civic Type-R

Fanboy: Red 2023 Toyota RAV4

Rooster: Grey 2020 Honda Civic Sport Touring

i only included the 'main' bunch of people also i just really like hondas a lot

[safyresky]

don't mind me just going on a wee vent below the cut! enjoy this jacqueline instead of the vent!

(an oldie but a goodie, saved this as "something about being stabbed as good emotional trauma". ok i go vent now)

BUYING A CAR HAS BEEN AN EXPERIENCE?

I know I blog about him every so often but Fitzy is, for context, the very first car I ever drove and have been driving since getting my permit in 20 fucking 11. TWENTY ELEVEN! HOLY HELL! I low key picked him out lmao, my parents brought us kiddos to the dealership when we had to replace the civic as old as me bc it got TOTALLED on the HIGHWAY by a TRUCK REAR ENDING IT, and my mom pointed out the Fit and went ou this one's cute!

And I stood beside it and went holy shit. It's me sized. And I sat in it and went OH MY GOD I LOVE IT. And it was BLUE and had a SPOILER and a lil bug eyed face and looked like it had FEELINGS and I said to my dad "if we get this car I am driving it"

I was 11 or 12 lmao.

My dad was like "We'll see about that"

in my head I was like "it's 4 years! we'll still have the car!"

I guess my dad wanted to trade it in? He didn't, lol, and then I got to learn to drive in Fitzy! AND BOY DID I DRIVE HIM! My siblings did, too, so Fitzy's been a real champ in our lives! We all learnt to drive with him!

I didn't take the car fully from my Dad until about, 2019? I got the car for a year in 2016/17 and it was EXCELLENT, I LOVED having it, the ability to just GO PLACES?!?!?!? BEAUTY! I covered some oil changes and bigger fixes and Fitzy kept. On. GOING.

I named Fitzy in 2017 when I had him for the year, and it caught on then! And he was such a verbal lil car (mostly bc things broke a lot bc he was also 10 at that point and FILLED WITH RUST BEGINNINGS) and he pulled to the left always which was funny bc like, why. We never knew. Honda didn't know. Mechanics didn't know.

He has ALWAYS had a slightly loud muffler, but not obnoxiously. It was very FUN to accelerate on the highway with him.

In 2019 my Dad's work went remote; so I took the car back home with me and became the main driver. It was, in all but name, my car. I had to save him from being declared unsafe by fixing the shocks, but we had many many years after that! My GOD we drove all OVER. It was FUN! It's still fun! but not very safe anymore I'm afraid ):

My duderinos, I fucking LOVE that car. And it has been such a hard 365 days for him ):

About this time last year I learnt that the rust had progressed to the point where the rear passenger seat had a giant fucking hole under it. I was given the ok to still drive it, but the moment someone sits back there? DANGER MOBILE. So, I put the seat down and it became CONDEMNED. Given the wedding, Richard and I kept making trips up and down and we had a HELLA snowy winter so the roads? COVERED in salt. and if you live anywhere like Canada with brutal winters, you KNOW salt is a KILLER on cars.

So, Fitzy's rust got worse. Every time I went for oil changes, they'd remind me hey, rusty car. maybe think of a new one? Then we'd discuss how feasible this is and they'd make it driveable bc it wasn't in the cards to get a car--between shit markets, FITS NOT BEING MADE ANYMORE!!! AND Richard also having to replace his car (rip Goldie you are missed every god damn DAY), it was in our best interest to keep Fitzy going as best as we could.

So I DID

We MOTORED. I've done 120km ish on that car JUST ON ME OWNSOME! And it was FUN! I love that car SO FUCKING MUCH. I know like, it's just a car, blah blah, I GET IT but like. GOD. He's important to me!!!!

So this year rolls around. And Poor Ftizy. My god. He is going through it.

January: wheel well pops off and tire shreds the plastic. I call CAA, they bring it to Honda, Honda tells me to put the car down. Nothing has changed; they just saw the rust and are more SALES oriented as opposed to my mechanic!

February: alternator goes

March: muffler has lost an anchor point; won't stop rattling along. Rust on the bumper finally gets to the point where the bumper pops out of the side. Y'all. I duct tapped that boy. Fucken eh.

April: MUFFLER BREAKS INTO 3 PIECES. FITZY HAS GONE FROM STOCK CAR FUN TIME TO HOLY SHIT SOMEONE HELP THIS CAR. We're planning for the wedding so I cannot fix him, alas.

May: Fitzy is benched ): bc muffler ): Goldie picks up the slack; post honeymoon, mechanic finds some expensive fixes. Asks Richard if they're band-aiding or what? Richard makes the executive decision to leave it, arranges a new used car with his mechanic. RIP Goldie; enter Ruby.

Late May: Given Ruby joining the fam, I get Fitzy fixed. We can't replace both cars anytime soon so. Here we go!

The mechanic recommends a muffler specialist down the street; they fix Fitzy up REAL NICE. He drives like he used to! I was like, we will be SAILING THIS SUMMER! HELL YEAH

So what happened?

Upon Richard getting a new car, I was thinking more and more about Fitzy. And the anxious levels alllll year every time I went to drive waiting for the next shoe to drop (the next thing to break). I started doing research, to see what the best car to replace the Fit would be. I start pricing shit out, seeing if two car replacements in the same year is feasible. June rolls around.

June: I went to the mechanic.

Regular maintenance; they do what they can, and they see how the rust has progressed.

The answer: WORSE. Worse enough that new rust related problems have appeared, and they break down everything wrong with the body:

still got the flinstone hole

anchors for back seat belts are compromised due to corrosion levels back there

spare tire carrier is rotten

left AND right rockers are rotten

left front axle seal is leaking

essentially, if someone rear ends me? I'm crumbling WITH the car. The structural integrity of cars today is such that they crumble AROUND you, keeping YOU safe. Fitzy...didn't have that ability anymore.

So after a month long deep dive into used HRVs vs Fits, and what's around, and what I'd like, I book a test drive for an HRV, and...got it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So now Fitzy is finally being retired. After I've saved him from the brink of death about 2 times. It was BOUND to happen eventually--I just wish it hasn't been the SAME year as wedding and Richard's car replacement and EVERYTHING ELSE going on this year.

But my GOD, am I EVER relieved! I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am for the new car and being able to DRIVE! WITHOUT WORRIES! Well, Fitzy worries lmao. The worries of collisions or things are there, but my god is it ever nice to be able to GO PLACES AGAIN WITHOUT FEARING FOR MY SAFETY! And Richard and I have had to coordinate drives and trips bc one car use only for the most part and it was getting hard!

BUT GOD IS BUYING A CAR EVER EMOTIONAL

On top of me pack bonding with my Fit, this weekend was a WHIRLWIND:

test driving the car was fucking NICE

the sales staff was gr8 and didn't rush us or force us to buy. answered all my fit and hrv related questions; all of richard's more financial/warranty sort of q's.

They tell us to take lunch to go talk it over, and we do

we have a 2 hour discussion over omelettes at a ma and pa diner about if we should do this, given what we learnt about the market while there and our own needs

this included: can we function with one car? do we feel financially secure enough for this? Will leasing/fianncing (which is what we did) break the bank? y'know, all that fun adulty shit

ultimately, you can't put a price on A) safety, and B) mental health! and not having a car that works has SUCKED for my own, bc a huge portion of my independence has been GONE, and it has SUCKED

so, Harley, Fitzy's replacement, has been acquiered.

HERE'S THE EMOTIONS PART THO.

SATURDAY:

upon making this decision amongst ourselves, we inform the parental units! my fam: relieved as FUCK. Proud and happy for me. Figuring out what to do with Fitzy now (that's a whole thing)

Mother in Law? not so much

IMMEDIATELY gives Richard the MEANEST lecture on everything he and I discussed over lunch and the past month, berates and guitls and just ruins the vibe

RICHARD gets all upset about it, we spend the drive back home venting about it, mood very ruined, doubts seeded (despite us doing our research and making sure we weren't getting fucked and such)

we get home and he THEN has to call her back and let her yell MORE before she goes "I'm calm and just concerned" and he explains what we did and how it's working and all that jazz and how we are going to be ok

this whole experience was exhausting

SUNDAY

sleep tf in bc we are TIRED

my parents call to chat about Fitzy and tl;dr: they have steel dealers there that'll pay a lot for Fitzy and want to bring him back and scrap him there

this was a whole thing. "can you drive it up?" i could but do NOT feel comfy given the issues cited at the mechanic. "what if we drove it?" same issues! your safety is important to me! "we can tow it" that'll be pricey "we can tow it ourselves!" can the van do that? and so on

turns out they were doing that bc they remembered the van they had, which had the EXACT SAME ISSUES AS FITZY (rust was killing it, then the muffler broke and they fixed it, then the power steering needed replacement but was in such a rusty area it could result in MORE damage they'd have to pay to fix, not the mechanic), and they got 0 money for it. So. My Mom was determined to find a place that'd give us a decent amount for Fitzy

And also, she and my dad are grieving the car too lmao, one of the places was called car heaven and my mom had. emotions about it

so that was a LOT to deal with, on top of MIL's finance lecture we did not need bc YEAH GIRL WE BE KNOW? Yeah

"blah blah PARENTS CARE" THEN THEY COULD AT LEAST BE NICE ABOUT IT. OR STRAIGHTFORWARD ABOUT IT

but we get that wrapped up and my parents find a way to tow the car home safely for all of us, promise to make sure the van is safe enough to do that :)

MONDAY

so after ALL THAT exhausting shit, comes the Big Day: INSURANCE DAY

Richard and I get quotes online when we can at work, to come home and call and settle on the best rates

on lunch, I get YET ANOTHER FINANCE LECTURE from my friend in STATS and it felt AWFUL.

"i dont wanna be like ur MIL," she said, AFTER KNOWING WHAT HAPPENED THERE!

it SUCKED. didn't help that she was tired bc she had a bad night sleep, but man did it make me upset and sad! I KNOW the interest is a LOT but WE ARE NOT FLUSH WITH CASH AND DO NOT HAVE GOOD CREDIT AND HAVE BEEN SPENDING WAY TOO MUCH ON CAR REPAIRS. Everything I've paid into Fitzy this year alone? COULD COVER THE NEW INSURANCE POLICY FOR THE Y E A R

i dislike being talked down too and i dislike people talking to me like i'm stupid bc I feel like a lot of people take my bubbly-ness and like. general friendly-ness as a clue that I've got NOTHING going on up there and I can be taken advantage of

AND SURE MAYBE I'M NOT THE GREATEST WITH NUMBERS OR BUSINESS TALK, BUT I'M NOT FUCKING STUPID AND I FEEL LIKE ALL MY FRIENDS WHO ARE OLDER THAN ME ARE LIKE "haha. you are baby" THE FUCK I AM! I HAVE INSURANCE NOW

not that I didn't before. but now I have me OWN policy

AND THAT WAS ACTUALLY SO PAINLESS? SHOPPING AROUND INCLUDED?

so YEAH.

It's been a very emotional few days between lecture after lecture and trying to make these decisions with a lot of people undermining you and today before coming up to the laptop after we got insurance worked out, Richard turned to me and said "your spirit seems so much lighter now" and it IS! I CAN DRIVE WITHOUT NEEDING TO DO A NERVOUS SHIT AT EVERY ON ROUTE AGAIN! I DON'T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT THE NEXT NEW WEIRD NOISE! HARLEY (that's Fitzy's successor's name) DOESN'T DO THAT SHIT! I HAVE A WORKING CAR AND THE MONEY WE WILL SAVE FROM BAND-AIDING OUR BEATERS WILL BE A NICE CHANGE OF PACE! AND I AM TIRED OF PEOPLE TALKING DOWN TO ME AND TREATING ME LIKE I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING! GAH!

Soooo YEAH. If you've made it this far, that's what I've been doing the last 3 days. CAR STUFF.

Fitzy, you were an absolute G, and I love you so goddamn much, you will always be the BEST CAR I have EVER had, and you will ALWAYS BE in my HEART and I will remember you FONDLY! He's got a space in CS now--he always has but it's even more cemented now (Jacqueline drives Fitzy. And he is. In his PRIME in CS, and I think that's the best thing I could do to remember my lil blue anger machine for forever) and I am going to miss that car so much but THANK YOU, FITZHERBERT. HE GOD DAMN FIT!

(THAT CAR PHOTOGRAPHED GOOD IN THE GOD DAMN SNOW! And dw dw Pate will have a new home in Harley! RIGHT ON THE DASH. Or on the rear view, tho I may go full old portuguese lady and put a rosary on there (we got a very pretty one from a family friend for the wedding and I uh. I'm kinda vibing it)

[jo-harrington]

Bluey! Bestie! Oh my god this is the sweetness we all needed after the literal barrage of angst we’ve been fed lately.

No analysis this time 😉. But ugh your words paint such a vivid picture and I’m sorry you had the experience of a car accident like that but if it brought us the culmination of Eddie and R getting together in this story…well, as long as you didn’t get seriously hurt. Hehe.

On that note, is this gonna be the Blue Honda Civic-verse? Because didn’t R in TKYM drive a glittering blue Honda Civic or no? (I drove a 99 Chevy Cavalier since I could drive up until it died in 2019 and one of my recent dream OCs is driving that silly car as an homage to all the adventures I had in that car so I fully empathize if that’s a car you drove.)

An amazing story this was my friend. I am full of all the sunshine you could possibly have poured into this. Can’t wait to see what you bring us next.

And of course of course congratulations to Cece on the brilliant milestone (and birthday coming up!!!)

trouble

modern au, emt!eddie x fem!reader. the four times you aren't hurt and the one time you are. pure fluff, a little drama, mentions of blood, non-graphic depictions of injuries. (15.8k)

For @newlips' Milestone of Love celebration. Congrats, lovely! 💙

fun fact: the scenario described in Scene 5 is actually pulled directly from real life, minus the pretty metal-head (unfortunately 😔).

The sun is beating down on your head, conjuring a halo of sweat that stings your eyes. You’d thrown your hair up into a claw clip some time ago, but it’s coming loose now as you’re jostled by elbows and knees. It’s all claustrophobia, all heat, all overwhelming sensations— the tang of sweat and alcohol on the back of your tongue, the thrum of bass rattling your ribcage, and the roar of guttural screaming ringing in your ears. 

You can’t get enough.

You’re a dot of pastel sweetness in a sea of undulating black, the only person at this concert wearing a straw crossbody bag and a dainty summer dress. Though it’s July and nearly ninety-five degrees out, everyone else is dressed in black and chains and ripped denim, sweating even more heavily than you are, thick black eyeliner running as they sing along to Spiritbox’s ‘Blessed Be.’ Your best friend Josie is the same— dark hair shaved on the sides but matted with sweat as it spikes down her back, though her denim cutoffs and fishnet stockings are marginally more practical than the black jeans many others are wearing. You’re practical, too; despite the tiny flowers on your dress and the sweet diamond studs in your ears, your white Converse are just as scuffed as the heavy boots around you.

The band Spiritbox is one of the only interests you and your best friend have in common. Since elementary school, you’ve been the visual equivalent of a sun to her raincloud. Though your tastes differ, your personalities mesh seamlessly, leaving you still thick as thieves; despite going to different colleges, you’d both returned home and found jobs nearby, picking up exactly where you’d left off four years before. It’s obvious why Josie would like this band— she thrives on everything metal and alternative. You typically gravitate toward indie music, but you really love the contrast of Courtney's delicate vocals and the heavy driving music punctuated by Mike's guttural growls. The screaming unlocks something primal inside you, and you bob your head and shout until your voice breaks, sounding just like everyone else. 

Your attention is drawn from the stage as bodies to your right compress together when a pit starts to form further up. Instantly, you know what that means; you’re still singing along, but you stop when Josie’s slippery hand finds yours, pulling you in that direction. Her olive green eyes flash eagerly as she glances back at you, and you communicate your acceptance through an answering smile. Josie squeezes between bodies to find the edge of the mosh pit, where she deposits you before diving head-first into the fray.

This isn’t your first Spiritbox show, and you know what to do: you brace, resisting the push of the crowd and jutting your elbows to maintain your space as you watch more dark-clad figures join the writhing, thrashing mess. You split your attention between the pit and the stage, content to keep an eye on your friend and let the coiled aggression of flung bodies stir you further, accentuating the music. You have no desire to mosh, and Josie knows that, but you enjoy watching while she shoves and bounces off others, sharp limbs swinging wildly, staggering with sparkling eyes and a broad grin—

The deafening music muffles the sound of a thick elbow connecting sharply with Josie’s face, but the visual is so jarring that you could swear you hear the crack.

“Josie!” Your hoarse cry cuts through to the closest two thrashing bodies, who halt at its urgency. Despite how violent a mosh pit appears to be, as soon as the moshers realize someone is hurt, the aggression dissolves on impact. You reach out your hands as a chain of helping hands deposits your friend before you with haste. 

You guide her immediately through the crowd, which parts almost eagerly at the sight of her blood painting the ground, pressed into the grass by heavy boots. You wince at the hunch of your friend’s shoulders, the visible pain on her face; one of her hands covers her nose but does little to staunch the sticky flow of blood. Josie relies on you to direct her, watery eyes nearly scrunched closed as you emerge from the press of damp bodies at the back of the crowd, dodging around stragglers, eyes scanning for a white canopy and red emblem designating the first aid station. It’s over on the right, peeking over that sea of black, and you head that way.

When you get there, both of the young men there are standing like statues facing the stage, showing you a mop of unruly light brown waves and a long ponytail of dark frizzy curls that might look feminine if it wasn’t for the obvious broadness of his shoulders. 

As you reach the table with Josie, the taller man with the ponytail is the first to notice your approach. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt tucked into belted pants, all black on black on black. In fact, he looks more suited to join the crowd than to tend them with the smattering of tattoos on his pale arms and the shaggy bangs that feather his forehead. And he glints with silver— a silver chain around his neck, rings of silver through his ears, even a silver septum piercing with spiked ends that peeks from the bottom of his soft nose. He’d look just like another groupie if not for the paramedic sigil on the breast of his shirt.

Despite his aggressive appearance, his brown eyes are warm as he abandons his view upon spotting you, dark brows flashing up as they scan Josie’s body with a clinical air. “What happened here?” he asks, and his voice is pleasantly smoky, friendly and casual as he pulls on rubber gloves with practiced motions. 

You cringe as her arm is moved aside to reveal the mess of her nose and the front of her saturated t-shirt, but he doesn’t bat an eye, wiping her face gently with dampened gauze to clean the drying blood away. As he works, eyes trained on the movements of his fingers, he asks, “What was it, doll? Did you catch an elbow to the face?” 

“She got hurt,” you supply, relinquishing your friend to him so he can guide her into a folding chair. Despite the inanity of your observation, the man doesn’t react beyond a little twitch of his full lips as he kneels in front of her. Josie also doesn’t offer more explanation, merely grunting as the paramedic gently but firmly pulls her hand away from her face. 

The pet name could have been awkward, but he says it so casually that it doesn’t feel slimy like a come-on would. It just feels like part of his personality to call people names like that. 

“Yeah, in the pit,” she grumbles, and he tips his head sympathetically, curly ponytail swaying. 

“That’ll do it,” he says. Once Josie’s face is clear of blood, he hands her some dry paper towels, motioning toward her shirt and telling her with some humor, “I’ll just let you handle that part.” 

She chuckles wetly, scrunching the fabric in her fist with the towel to press out the blood. As it transfers to the paper, the paramedic clears his used supplies into the biohazard bin before returning to his place, kneeling before her, warning her quietly that he’s going to touch her face before he does it.

You watch, hovering a little awkwardly near them as he palpates her nose gently with the tips of his fingers. He seems to have a way of putting people at ease with the cadence of his voice. It’s casual, almost preternaturally calm, but musical, too, engaging in a way you wouldn’t expect. He remains careful while examining Josie’s nose, even as he grows distracted as a new song starts. He starts glancing over toward the stage, moving through the motions clinically, detached despite the warmth and humor in his voice when he says cheerily, “Well, it’s not broken. That’s a relief, huh?” 

She sighs, olive green eyes melting to confirm that it is, in fact, a relief. “Yeah.”

A smiling flash of white eyeteeth and then he’s standing again, skirting around you without really acknowledging you as he digs around in a box of supplies. He returns with an icepack, cracking it to activate the gel inside before wrapping it in more paper towels. “Hold here,” he instructs, showing Josie where to hold it, replacing his sure fingers with her more ginger ones.

“Thank you,” she says, standing and flanking you as he peels off his gloves, folding them inside each other before leaning back against the table with his hands braced behind him. Your eyes are drawn to the tendons of his forearms, pale and dotted with ink.

He doesn’t reply to her thanks directly, though his deep brown eyes twinkle with mischief. “You just had to go gettin’ hurt during the best song of the show, didn't you?” 

His tone is exaggerated to ensure she knows he’s teasing, and it’s only when she chuckles that his full lips split in a pleased grin, attention turning again toward the stage as a particularly wicked guitar solo begins.

You pipe up then. “It’s only the best song in the show if they don't play Holy Roller.” 

“No way they don’t play Holy Roller,” he retorts instantly, brown eyes flashing in your direction. The loose curls around his jaw lash his chin as his head jerks in a not-so-subtle double-take, and those eyes widen as he realizes it was you and not your friend who spoke. His gaze flicks you up and down quickly, taking in your sweet floral dress and your white converse. When his eyes catch yours, the curl of his lips reveals a level of intrigue. “And here I thought you were just the chaperone,” he says, again with that teasing, musical cadence that seems characteristic. 

There’s the temptation to be offended, but this guy seems harmless beneath the ink and frizzy shag; the wolfishness of his smile doesn’t bely the warmth in his eyes. Sensing that he can take as much as he dishes out, you scoff, quirking a brow and pursing your lips in mock offense. “Maybe you shouldn’t make snap judgments about people. I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.”

A barking laugh pierces the air between you, and despite yourself, you can’t suppress a smile. Rather than being put off by your challenge, he seems delighted; the manic widening of those plush lips crinkles the corners of his eyes. His smile instantly brightens his face as he tips his head toward you. “Touché,” he says before straightening up, pushing off the table to jam his hands in his back pockets.

The sudden weight of his stare has your skin prickling despite the heat of the July sun; you turn from it quickly to ask Josie if she’s doing okay now.

She pulls the icepack from her face, scrunching her nose to test out the pain. “Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, I wanna get back out there.” She scowls, craning her head as if she’s looking for something.

“Back to our spot, you mean?���

“No, back to the pit,” she replies incredulously as if it’s obvious. Your brow crinkles with a mixture of dismay and wry fondness, but you know better than to offer resistance. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s that Josie takes your reminders of caution as a personal offense. As you start to walk away from the medic tent, falling into stride together, she shoots you a sour glare, grumbling, “This is what happens when you feed me jello shots.” 

Your outrage is instant; you spin on your heel, stopping short to face her and gripe right back, though she doesn’t slow when you do. “I did not! Actually, you stole my jello shots, Josie.” 

“Ah, I get it now. You look like an angel, but you’re secretly trouble.” You hear that teasing cadence behind you, and you turn to find the paramedic standing beside his companion once again, body angled toward the stage but head tilted to eye you slantingly. He looks amused, and you’re torn between blushing and pouting, protesting and giggling, so you just freeze, doing none of the above. Unbothered, he twists and bends smoothly to root in the cooler behind the folding table. Your eyes are drawn to the cords of his pale neck and the flash of silver in his ears.

“Here,” he says, straightening and holding them both out in one broad hand in offering. He drops the joking tease, all professional concern once again. “Take some water with you. Make sure you keep hydrated if you’re drinking.” 

You backtrack quickly to take both bottles from him, smiling as you meet his warm brown eyes. “Thank you,” you say.

“You got it,” he replies, but you don’t hear— you’re too busy hurrying to catch up with Josie, who’s cutting a path right back to the pit, stubborn as always.

The walk from the company parking lot to your office building is two long blocks away and takes a brisk five minutes, eight if you’re not in a rush. And you’re not this morning. The sweltering August heat has decided to grace your town with a brief reprieve; all the typical ills of summer are eased today, leaving behind a pleasant dry heat, a slight breeze, and bright sun in a puffy-cloud sky. You relish your brief stroll in the sunshine and find yourself wishing your cubicle faced the park across the street, if only so you could torture yourself with its tantalizing view, yearning to instead be seated on a bench shaded by the cherry trees.

Your gaze drifts that way as you walk along the sidewalk, and a bright spot of yellow catches your attention. As you draw closer to your building, the shape discerns itself into an old man swaddled in a canary-yellow raincoat, the plasticky hood caught between his hunched shoulders and the back of the wooden bench. Beneath the open raincoat is a checkered shirt, a pair of brown trousers, and a bowtie that looks to be his Sunday best, though it’s currently Thursday. His loafer scuffs the concrete beneath him as he swings one foot absently, gazing up at the puffy-clouded sky.

Another individual relishing this unexpected gift early in the morning. You smile softly to yourself and turn from the old man as you grasp the handle, pulling the heavy glass door open. A blast of cold air unleashes upon you, and you shiver your way to the elevator. As the aluminum doors slide open, the park slips from your mind, evaporating like dew from grass.

Four hours later, the brrringing of phones and the fuzz of light office chatter have fully replaced the sound of early morning birdsong in your ears. Your eyes flick to the bottom right corner of your laptop just in time to see the forty-nine tick to fifty. The sight brings relief and a timely grumble of your stomach, and you close the lid of your laptop decisively. The promise of a cobb salad from your favorite nearby lunch shop hastens your steps to the elevator.

When you push open that heavy glass door once again, the air is warmer, and the street is more active now, but the sun on your skin is just as welcome. The park and its cherry trees call to you as they had this morning, and your eyes find that bench you’d been yearning for once again. It’s empty now, almost beckoning for you. You indulge in the sight for a moment despite your hunger, lush green blooming behind brown wood, visible between the cars that zoom past. 

And then the tiniest sliver of canary yellow peeks from beyond a bush.

You were about to walk on, but you pause then, craning your neck to try to catch more of that color. A small shift and you see it again— the canary yellow of what is undoubtedly the sleeve of a raincoat.

Is that the same old man from this morning? Even as you question it, you know the answer; you know it must be him. You frown, puzzled, wavering as you’re torn between two impulses. Your stomach pangs hollowly, reminding you of cobb salad. What business is it of yours what a stranger does? You imagine how silly you’d feel wandering over there to bother him for no reason. But as you watch him, he hobbles further into your sight, resting one unsteady hand against the trunk of a nearby tree. Your heart stirs, and you find your feet moving of their own accord to the crosswalk.

You approach him slowly at first, with the caution one might use when edging toward a wild animal. His back is turned to you, revealing a head of thin gray hair haloed around a sizeable bald spot like candy floss. Hesitantly, you inch closer, feeling a little ridiculous as he fidgets there in the grass just off the path, one hand still tremulously holding onto the trunk as he shifts his weight from foot to foot restlessly. His eyes are darting over the bushes and paths restlessly, as if searching. You’re just deciding what to say— or even whether to say something at all— when he turns his head and catches sight of you with watery eyes.

His brows jump as he registers you, and his pruny mouth opens in a little ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh,” he says, sounding delightedly surprised. “Hello!”

You feel a bit caught out, heat rushing to your cheeks as he pivots slowly to face you, one hand still stuck to the tree. But you’re committed now that he’s seen you; you might as well follow through on your impulse. “Hi, sir,” you try, “are you looking for someone?”

The old man doesn’t answer your question. Instead, very matter-of-factly, he says, “My knees are hurtin’ me.”

It has you reaching for him almost automatically, hooking your hand underneath his elbow. He welcomes your help unhesitantly and without complaint, shifting with your coaxing grip. He feels so frail beneath your fingers, almost weightless; when he lets go of the trunk to rely on your stability, you hardly notice the difference. He barely lifts his feet when he walks, loafers dragging in the grass, and you edge with him toward the path with tiny shuffling steps. Stepping from the grass to the concrete feels laborious as he trembles with the effort. 

As you lead him patiently back toward the bench from this morning, you can’t help but wonder how long he’d been standing by the tree. And then, you can’t help but wonder how he even got here to the park, considering how much effort it’s taking him to walk a dozen feet. This isn’t a residential area, and this man isn’t just old. He’s positively feeble.

He clasps your hand as you help him turn and sinks down onto the wood with a bone-weary sigh of relief. Rather than releasing your hand, he pats the back of it with his other, smiling pleasantly. “Thank you, Ruthie,” he says, continuing to pat your hand as if he’s unaware of it. “I’m ready to go home now.”

You blink with utter bafflement, eyes flitting over the old man’s creased face and his watery blue eyes gazing at you with fondness. It dawns on you fairly quickly that this man isn’t just having trouble finishing his casual stroll in the park. And it explains why he’d looked surprised but happy to see you and hadn’t offered any resistance when you helped him. 

Yet you have no idea who he is or where he lives, and your name is not, in fact, Ruthie.

You chew your lip as you look into his placid face. He seems calm right now, but if he’s confused— if something medical is going on— that could be easily disturbed. Gently, you chance a question. “Where is home? Do you know your address?”

His face scrunches up, wrinkles folding on themselves as he squints at you quizzically. His voice gains more strength with its incredulity. “What d’ya mean, Ruth? Born and raised in the same house and you don’t remember our address?” He shakes his head, glancing away as he pulls back his hands and folds them in his lap. 

Well, that clarifies it— he clearly thinks you’re his daughter, though you’re probably about twenty years too young for that. Your thoughts whir as you consider how to respond and keep him from becoming truly agitated. “Aw, you got me!” you say, pretending you were pulling his leg. He seems to buy it as his frown eases and he looks back at you with begrudging amusement. Gently, you say, “I just gotta make a phone call, and then we can go, okay?”

The old man’s reply is perfectly jovial, and it fills you with relief. “Tha’s okay, dear. I got my crossword.” He reaches inside the raincoat and pulls out a tightly-folded rectangle from the breast of his checkered shirt, working it open to reveal a creased page from the newspaper. He digs in his pants pocket, and a pencil emerges along with some crumpled tissues and plastic-wrapped suckers that scatter near his feet. You frown, eyes darting between his spilled belongings— or trash— and his face. He doesn’t notice as he settles into the seat, seeming content to wait and work on his crossword.

You have half a mind to pick the candies up so he won’t trip on them, but the phone call you have planned seems more urgently needed. You trail a few steps away to call the non-emergency police number, eyes darting to and from the old man as you provide your location and explain the situation quietly to the operator. “He seems… confused,” you say. “Like, not all there.”

“Is he agitated?”

“No,” you say. “But he thinks he knows me, and I don’t know him. He keeps calling me Ruth when that’s not my name.” Nervousness bubbles at the base of your throat, concern rising for the older man whom you now view as your responsibility. “Do you think he’s okay?”

There’s a pause, and then the operator says neutrally, “It could be a number of things. I’m sending someone out right now to check on him. Are you okay to wait with him until the paramedics arrive?” 

You’re already nodding before the question is finished. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“All right. They’re on their way.”

You hang up and glance at the man again, feeling a tug at your heart when you see him holding the crossword so close to his nose, how the paper wobbles in his grasp. He seems caught up in it, which honestly is a relief. You don’t know how much longer you’d be able to keep up the pretense of knowing him if he wanted to talk to you more. Your cobb salad is all but forgotten now as worry prickles in your chest; you stand sentry over this stranger from a distance, keeping an attentive eye on him as you wait for help to come.

It doesn’t take too long for the ambulance to arrive, and your heart leaps as it pulls along the curb in front of the park. You jolt forward a couple of steps, fluttering your fingers in a little awkward wave at the blurry figures behind the glass as if they need your help finding the old man in the bright yellow coat, as if they need your assistance at all, really. You feel silly again, cheeks burning as you impulsively change your mind. Rather than meeting the paramedics at the ambulance, you march over and plop down next to the old man on the bench.

He startles slightly when you join him, and you almost feel bad to have scared him, but then he’s smiling at you again. “Ruthie!” He exclaims. “Is it time to go to the cleaners?”

You’re saved from having to answer as you hear the ambulance door pop open, and you follow the old man’s gaze to the figure swinging himself jauntily down from the rig with one pale hand braced atop the door.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Even at this distance, that frizzy shag of curls is unmistakable, though it’s loose around his shoulders now. You remember what you’d said at the concert almost a month ago: ‘I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.’ Your heart skips and thumps hard as he comes closer, and you clasp your hands tight in your lap. The tatted-up paramedic with the warm honey-brown eyes and the wolfish flashing grin may be memorable, but a squirm of self-consciousness races through you as you consider how unmemorable you are in comparison. Not that you can blame him, considering how many people he likely interacts with every day.

His eyes remain fixed on the man at your side as he lopes your way, and you lick at your bottom lip as he comes close enough to see the glint of silver in his ears and beneath his nose. “Hey, Mr. J,” he says casually, and you glance at the man sitting beside you, who’s still watching him approach blankly without acknowledgment. When your eyes meet honey brown again, a corner of his lips crooks up in a fond grin. “Well, hello there.” He draws the words out with a hint of teasing, and a smile blooms automatically on your face. “Been out moshing in any more flower dresses lately?” He adds as he closes the distance quickly, and you feel your self-consciousness melt into effusive warmth knowing he remembers you.

 “I only mosh for Holy Roller,” you say, and his grin widens before his attention turns back to the man at your side. The paramedic drops to one knee before him, a forearm braced against his other thigh. With his face now close enough, the old man’s watery eyes light in recognition. 

“Ed!” he exclaims in a delighted rasp, even more enthusiastic than when he’d greeted you. You turn curious eyes to the curly-haired man in front of you, wondering if that’s actually his real name or if it’s just one bestowed upon him like ‘Ruth’ had been to you.

Unphased, ‘Ed’ repeats his earlier greeting. “Hey, Mr. Jenkins.” He maintains that same warm friendly tone, though it seems more careful than the one he used with you and Josie. “How you doin’ lately? Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

Mr. Jenkins sighs dramatically, the deep, weary sigh of the elderly. “Ah, Ed. Ya know, it’s my hips,” he says, shaking his head as if it’s a shame. “Dang things are always givin’ me issues. Don’t get old if you can avoid it.” 

The paramedic’s lips quirk sympathetically. “I’ll try not to, Mr. J,” he says obligingly. “You still doin’ bingo at the VA on Thursday nights?” 

As Mr. Jenkins leans eagerly forward to tell him all about it, you watch the paramedic slip his pale fingers around the paper-thin skin of the man’s wrist, nodding absently as he looks up at the sky. When he checks his watch, you realize he’s taking the man’s pulse.

Subtly, as Mr. Jenkins happily prattles on, the paramedic flashes a tiny flashlight to assess his pupillary response before checking the rest of his vitals, the musical cadence of his answers acting as a distraction while he evaluates him. Your eyes skate over the paramedic’s face— his soft nose, his wide brown eyes, his pink lips, and his strong jaw framed by frizzy curls that hang past his collar. As you do, you feel a surge of admiration for his manner, but you’re not quite sure what about it has you impressed.

As he replaces the flashlight pen in his pouch, the old man looks between you. “Have you met my Ruthie?” When honey brown flashes to you quickly, you shake your head minutely, staring at him and hoping he gets the hint. 

After a brief pause, the paramedic finally replies, “Can’t say I have.” Your shoulders drop in relief that he’d caught on.

Mr. Jenkins pats your bare knee with his shaky hand right below the hem of your pencil skirt. Your mouth tightens in a bashful smile as he gushes, “Oh, she’s a good girl. A real good girl. You’d be lucky to find a girl like this, Ed.” 

It’s both charming and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of this old man’s unwarranted affection, and you feel your cheeks heat with a fierce flush. Beyond your control, your eyes dart to the man across from you to find him smiling— closed-lipped and crooked, so a dimple pops on one cheek. “She sure seems like it, Mr. Jenkins,” the paramedic answers, and your cheeks positively burn. 

Mr. Jenkins continues on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, and you avert your eyes to the safety of your lap. It doesn’t offer much of a reprieve, however, as you can’t escape how the sweet, confused old man still has your knee in a vice grip and the guy in front of you is staring right through you with those honey-brown eyes. With an air of authority, Mr. Jenkins announces, “You outta take my Ruthie to the drive-in. They show the double features on Wednesdays, more bang for your buck. And treat ‘er to a milkshake; she loves a good black and white.” He jabs a shaky finger toward the paramedic to punctuate how serious he is. ��Ya hear me, Ed?” 

Oh, my gosh. It was one thing to compliment you, but setting you up with a stranger has edged this conversation past uncomfortable and into nearly mortifying. Your stomach flutters with discomfort and nerves at the idea. 

“I hear you, Mr. J,” you hear him answer, and when you look up, he seems to be holding back laughter; his eyes are crinkled, lips fighting to stay pursed when they want to smile, and his voice is dripping warmth. As he stands, stretching his back, his piercing eyes return to you. “Hey, Ruth,” he says neutrally, “would you help me with this?” He tips his head toward the ambulance and you nod quickly, hastening to follow.

As you fall into step beside him, you become acutely aware of your closeness— the sway of his narrow hips, the jangle of his belt and med-pack, the thump of his heavy boots against the concrete, the faint scent of tobacco and spice that clings to his black collared shirt. Your eyes dart quickly to the curtain of hair hanging by his collar, how soft the curls look from this distance. You turn your chin toward him but keep your eyes on the ambulance. “He’s been there since before eight this morning,” you say quietly, “in the park. I saw him on my way to work. When I came out for my lunch break, he was just standing under a tree.”

You feel the heat of the paramedic’s bare forearm radiate against your elbow as he ducks closer, his voice still musical even in a murmur. “So, what, you thought you’d check on him?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms as you prickle with self-consciousness. The motion has your elbow bumping against his skin, and the heat of it flashes like a burn. “It just didn’t seem right to leave without checking if he was okay. He was confused; he asked me if we were going to the cleaners.” You glance at him, and he’s still ducked to hear you as you speak softly; his brown eyes are so close that you can see the varied shades of brown in them, like the rings of a cedar tree. You swallow thickly. “I think he thinks I’m his daughter.”

“You did the right thing,” he replies, his voice gentle and tinged with fondness. “Mr. J is well-known around here. Sweet guy, harmless. He’s got dementia.” 

Your eyes soften as you blink at him, compassion welling up as he speaks about the old man with such kindness. He straightens suddenly, and you realize that you’ve reached the side of the ambulance. 

He tugs open the door and calls to his partner, who peers over from the driver’s seat. “Hey, can you call Jimmy, tell him his dad’s in Washington Square Park?” 

“Sure thing,” comes the answer, though you can’t really see him. 

The paramedic closes the door again, and when he leans back against it, crossing his arms casually and propping a boot against the metal frame, you realize asking you to help him with something was just pretense. For some reason, that makes you glow with that same effusive warmth you’d felt when you first heard him address you again, brown eyes alight with his tease about mosh pits.

“So,” he says, lips quirking in a slanted grin, “I take it your name’s not Ruth.” 

You chuckle through your answer. “No, not Ruth.” You scrape your two front teeth against your lip before adding, “It’s y/n.” 

He nods, and his curls sway with it. The grin grows fractionally. “I’m Eddie.” 

“Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean,” you add quickly, and your hand wants to stick out to shake his, but a bigger part of you cringes at the impulse. You keep it stubbornly stuck to your side.

“Yeah, you too. Officially,” he says warmly. 

A door slams again as his partner gets out of the truck, crossing by the front bumper. He’s tall and a little broader than Eddie— knowing his name has your stomach fluttering with warmth— and his hair is shorter but no less impressive, with brown waves that bob against his forehead as he heads over to Mr. Jenkins. “Steve!” You hear the old man exclaim behind you, and your eyes find honey brown as if by instinct. You exchange a fond grin with Eddie at Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting, marveling at how affection curls behind your sternum for this man who was such a short time ago a total stranger. Mr. Jenkins, that is.

Of course.

And soon, a stranger again he will become, you realize as Eddie pushes off from the door, jamming his hands in the pockets of his black pants. “Thanks for staying with him. And calling it in. Most people wouldn’t have done that,” he tells you, and you blush with pleasure at the genuineness you hear.

“It was no problem,” you say. For a moment you just stand there, feeling awkwardness creep up. You shift your weight to one hip and twist your heel; when the gravel grinds loudly underfoot, you stop, suppressing a wince. You’re desperate to move on, so you blurt, “I’d better get back to work.” You pause, adding, “Will he be okay?” 

“He’ll be fine.” Eddie sounds so entirely assured of the fact that you believe him immediately, nodding with relief. He squints at you, jerking his chin to look at you sideways, and his dark hair sways as he does. “Hey. You didn’t have lunch, did you?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He pulls one hand from his pocket to wave absently in the air. “You said you left to go get lunch but checked on Mr. J instead, right? So you didn’t get to eat.” 

You fumble to reply, but he’s already spinning, pulling open the door to the ambulance and hauling himself up. He bends over the seat, black pants pulling taught over his thighs and butt, and you quickly look away.

His voice comes muffled at first. “Here—” There’s the heavy sound of his boots hitting asphalt and then a crinkly rectangle is being waved at you. “ —have a protein bar,” he finishes, brandishing it toward you.

Your brows crinkle. “Oh, I’m really okay—” 

He cuts you off, kindly but firmly. “I insist.”

You take it from him gingerly. It’s a Cliff bar— peanut butter and chocolate. You meet wide honey-brown with a thankful smile. “This isn’t your lunch, is it?” you tease.

Eddie scoffs, waving you off. “Of course not,” he says, rotating around you and hopping up onto the curb, but the twinkle in his eyes and the dimple of his cheek leave you without confidence. 

There’s the impulse to question him further, but he doesn’t give you the chance; he starts walking backwards toward the bench with meandering, though purposeful, steps. “See you around,” he says, saluting you with two fingers tipped against his temple. You wave mutely, and he flashes one last parting grin before turning away. 

You stand motionless for a moment, staring at his back until you catch sight of his partner throwing you a curious glance. That snaps you out of it, and you hurry to the crosswalk.

Yet before you tug open that heavy glass door, you can’t help but glance back one more time. Between the flashes of passing cars, you see Eddie: he’s sitting next to Mr. Jenkins on the bench, legs spread wide and elbows resting on his knees, bobbing his head with big swings of his dark curls as the man shows him his crossword. 

This time, when the cold air blasts you in the face, you stay warm.

“You really do like black and white, huh?”

Your eyes dart up to catch brown. “Hm?”

Your date folds his hands against the tablecloth, twining his fingers together. His lips twitch up into a crooked grin as he motions with his chin. “You’re wearing a black blouse and a white skirt. Last time we went out, you were wearing a black dress and a white cardigan.” 

You blink, brows darting up. “Oh!” you say, glancing down at yourself. He is indeed correct— you’re wearing the same colors you had on your first date with him, entirely by coincidence. He leans back as if expecting you to be impressed that he’d noticed, and you smile, brightening your voice even further. “That’s right!” you say, tipping your head and lightly teasing him. “Well, aren’t you observant?”

He preens under your attention. “I try to be,” he says smoothly. “It pays to be observant in my line of work.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. “Speaking of, how go things on the fifth floor? I rarely venture down there.”

“Oh, you know…” He keeps up the flirtatious banter, mirroring your position: broad hand cradling his strong chin, elbow planted on the table. “Just convinced Synegen to sign over all their marketing needs. No biggie. All in a day’s work for us fifth-floorers.” His brown eyes twinkle. “Maybe you’ll have reason to come down more often now.”

Daintily, you sip your wine, which burns pleasantly warm down your throat as your eyes rake over his features: long, alkaline nose, square jaw, dreamy brown eyes, and a neat, high fade. “Maybe I shall, Matt,” you smolder, and his grin widens.

This is your second date with fifth-floor Matt— as Josie refers to him since you’d met him in the elevator of your office building— and it’s going quite well if you do say so yourself. Typically, you wouldn’t agree to a date with a guy you’d just met, but Matt’s boldness had a certain charm about it when he’d caught the elevator door to keep it from closing and hit you with that white smile and a proposition of dinner. And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was handsome and clearly built even under the slacks and dress shirt.

As he’d pointed out, you’d worn black and white on your first date but had felt slightly underdressed at the swanky place he’d whisked you away to. You hadn’t been expecting all the bells and whistles, though to your relief, he’d seemed pleased to have impressed you rather than disappointed. The conversation had flowed well between you, and he hadn’t been too forward at the end of the night, leaving you with a pleasant impression. When he’d called to ask you out again— of course within the permissible four to seven days post-date, and no sooner— you hadn’t had any reason to say no, which is why you find yourself at yet another swanky restaurant, Italian on this occasion. And you’re dressed a little more formally this time: black silk blouse, tight white skirt, and Josie’s tall black strappy things that she affectionately calls her ‘stripper heels.’ 

They look great, but your ankles are aching like a bitch, and you haven’t even gotten your food yet.

“And how are things going for my favorite copyeditor?” Matt asks, taking a sip of his drink, and you blush lightly under his attention. 

“Well…” you draw out the word, letting the music and the clinking of glasses around you fill the silence. “Did I tell you about Doris?” He shakes his head, and you’re just about to launch into the story of your accident-prone coworker’s latest kerfuffle when the waiter materializes at your elbow, holding two gleaming white plates.

“Tortellini?” he cuts in smoothly, and you smile up at him as he places it down in front of you. “Scallops?” he confirms with Matt, who immediately picks up his utensils to dig in as you continue your story.

You poke around at your food as you talk about Doris’ misfortune, and Matt nods and emotes appropriately throughout your recollections. “—I don’t know how she manages to get herself into all of these situations, the poor woman.” You shake your head sympathetically, taking a bite of tortellini. It’s wonderfully cheesy with a delicate sauce, and your brows jerk in pleasant surprise as the flavor bursts on your tongue. You chew and swallow quickly to exclaim, “Wow! This is really good.”

Matt is nodding eagerly, threading his finger between the collar of his shirt and his throat, pulling at it absently. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s delicious. This place is amazing. You know, I actually—”

He breaks off in a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. “Sorry,” he says, and you smile reassuringly. “I was saying that—” His voice weakens suddenly, and as he clears his throat roughly, your brow tightens in concern.

“Are you okay?” you ask, putting down your fork upon seeing how he tugs again at his collar. 

“I’m totally fine,” he assures you, “just have a tickle in my throat.”

Despite his quick hand-waving to dismiss your concern, it doesn’t alleviate that prickle of foreboding you feel building as your eyes scan his face, which looks suddenly more flushed than it did a moment ago. “Are you allergic to anything?”

Matt tips his head, gesturing with his fork and knife. “Well, yeah,” he admits, “but not to this.” He sounds perfectly confident in his assertion, but it doesn’t mollify you. Above his thick fingers, which are still plucking at his collar, pink splotches crawl up his neck. 

The foreboding builds insistently, and you know he can detect the new edge of urgency in your voice. “Do you have an EpiPen?”

Somehow, almost inexplicably, Matt still doesn’t look worried. He scoffs, shaking his head even as he concedes, “Yeah, I have one, but I never carry it around with me. Look, I know what not to eat, y/n. I’m not a child—”

You’re not listening because you’re already on the phone with 911.

“I think my date is having an allergic reaction. His throat is itchy, he’s coughing and clearing his throat, and he’s getting flushed.” You glance at him to see his eyes narrowed at you and his mouth open in indignance. “And his lips are swelling,” you add.

Matt pokes at his lips, and you look away as the operator assures you EMS is on their way to the restaurant. “Should I stay on the line?” you ask, gaze darting as you listen to his instruction, even while Matt groans and rolls his eyes.

“You’re being dramatic,” he’s saying, but you ignore him, lowering the phone without hanging up.

“He suggested some fresh air would help. Come on.”

Despite his lunking frame, you’re hauling him out to the sidewalk in your strappy heels with a determination he seems reluctant to truly resist. He could easily break out of your hold, but he lets you manhandle him out into the slight chill of this early September night. You undo the top three buttons of his shirt to loosen the pressure on his neck, working around your phone, which is still clutched in one hand. You suppress a huff at his salacious smile. “I mean,” he chuckles, “if you just wanted to get me out of my clothes, honey, you didn’t have to do all this.”

You shake your head, holding the phone up to your ear. “Yeah, I’m still here,” you say to the operator, “we’re outside now. He doesn’t seem to be any worse.”

Matt’s shoulders sag as he rolls his head, coughing lightly through his words. “I’m not gonna get worse because there’s nothing wrong with me.” He lifts his arms and lets them slap against his thighs, exasperated. “This is such a waste of time—”

The white and red ambulance turns the corner, and you step around your date to flag them down. “They’re here,” you say breathlessly to the operator. “Okay, I’m gonna hang up.”

The vehicle slows to a stop in front of you, and you step back from the curb as both doors open. They close one after another, like the strike of lightning and the boom of thunder following it. The boom of thunder crosses around the front of the bumper, eyes locked on you. And he’s got a beautiful head of hair— thick, luscious brown locks, expertly messy.

Your heart leaps as you recognize him, hearing Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting echoing in your ear. Because if he’s the boom of thunder, then maybe the lightning strike is—

“I shoulda known you’d be here, Trouble.”

You turn toward the voice, heart pounding despite the quizzical scrunching of your nose. Eddie interprets it correctly, his grin brightening his honey-brown eyes as he clarifies, “As I said, you look like an angel, but since we keep runnin’ into each other like this, it’s official. You must be nothing but trouble.”

You flush at the teasing tone of his musical voice, cheeks pinking, and as his grin turns wolfish with delight, you know he’s noticed. Abruptly, he looks away, and you follow his gaze to Matt, whose brows are furrowed lightly. Eddie’s tone loses the teasing quality, though it remains pleasant. “So, what’s goin’ on here, big guy? You think you’re having an allergic reaction?” he asks, pulling out the flashlight from his pack.

“No,” Matt says firmly, though his voice sounds more hoarse now. “She thinks I’m having an allergic reaction. I’ve just got an itchy throat.”

Undeterred, Eddie steps up to him. “Open your mouth,” he instructs calmly, and begrudgingly, Matt complies. His tongue lolls as Eddie peers inside. “What did you eat?”

“It was a pasta dish,” you offer, watching as Steve hovers nearby while Eddie feels along Matt’s throat with gloved hands. “Scallops, prosciutto, peas, um… white wine sauce. I don’t know the rest of the ingredients.”

“Any known allergies?” Steve asks, and everyone looks to Matt for the answer.

“I already told her,” he says with an air of long-suffering, “I do have a food allergy, but not to this—”

Eddie interjects calmly but firmly. “What are you allergic to?”

Matt sighs. “I’m only allergic to shellfish.”

There’s the briefest moment of stunned silence, and then Eddie tips his chin, pinning your date with his dark eyes— still calm, still pleasant, but with an air of unattestable authority. “Sir, you are having an allergic reaction. Hey, Harrington?”

“On it,” comes the immediate reply, and Steve is digging in the med-pack at his hip, guiding Matt to the back of the ambulance. You watch Matt’s eyes dart wildly, though he allows himself to be pushed along in his bafflement, stuttering questions and weak protests as he goes. You recognize the bright orange cap of the EpiPen as Steve pulls open one of the ambulance’s back doors; distantly, you hear him prompting your date, “Hop up here for me, would you?”

You hear a jangle close by, and the sound pulls your eyes from the ambulance to the man still standing at your side. His arms are folded behind his back now, his full lips dimpled in a secret smile. In Josie’s tall heels, your face is closer to his, and you nearly feel the brush of his wild hair against your blouse as he sways closer with his upper body so he can mutter at you with glittering eyes. 

“Really?” Eddie says, and the ghost of his breath stirs the hair beside your ear. Your body prickles with heat, stomach fluttering as he straightens again, quirking a brow and looking highly amused. For some reason, you feel called out, raw and exposed, and you cross your arms and narrow your eyes despite the deepening heat in your cheeks. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you retort. “I don’t give my dates quizzes on animal classifications during the vetting process.”

“Well,” Eddie lowers his voice, and the timbre makes you shiver, goosebumps prickling your arms. “Maybe you should.”

You scoff. “He’s a marketing genius. I think that makes up for it.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches before his dark eyes widen. Your gaze is drawn to his eyelashes, which are enviably long. “So,” he asks casually, “did you enjoy that protein bar?”

You’re left reeling from the abrupt change of subject, but you place the reference quickly. “Sure,” you say, tipping your head, a little bemused as to why he’s asking. “It was fine.”

Eddie’s brows jerk in exaggerated offense as he claps a hand over his heart. “Just fine? First, you eat my lunch, and now you tell me it was just fine?”

 Your mouth falls open in incredulity, face utterly indignant as Eddie grins broadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners at your reaction. In the vehemence of your feeling, you step closer, smacking his arm with a familiarity you aren’t entitled to, though you don’t notice as you protest, “You told me it wasn’t your lunch! What the hell, Eddie?!”

He cowers away from you playfully, dissolving into husky chuckles that are both goofy and undeniably endearing. They settle in your stomach, and you feel your lips curving of their own accord. You can’t deny how good it feels to hear him laugh, and you suddenly want more. “Honestly!” You lean into it, advancing on him as threateningly as you can in a blouse and miniskirt, though you know he sees the mirth dancing in your eyes. He backs up a step, playing into your game as you huff, “You’re so—!”

“I can drive myself to the hospital. I don’t need you!” 

The shout cuts you off, and your smile dies abruptly as you and Eddie look toward the source of the disturbance. It’s Matt, your date, scowling as he hops down to the asphalt. He’s arguing with Steve, who pops from behind the ambulance to follow him to the sidewalk.

“Sir—” Matt’s ignoring him, stalking toward you with intent. “I can’t force you, but I really must advise you not to drive yourself.” 

Matt whirls on him, pointing a finger in his chest. “I know what you’re trying to do. You just want me to take the ambulance because you’ll get paid more. It’s all a big scam.”

Steve’s brow scrunches in an incredulous wince, and embarrassment curdles in your stomach as you watch Matt’s face transform into smugness. “See?” The triumph in the curl of his smile is entirely undeserved. “Can’t argue with the facts. I’m onto you, buddy.” 

Exasperation, embarrassment, and self-consciousness mix potently as you feel the weight of Eddie’s eyes on the back of your head like a physical presence. Impulsively, you blurt, “I’ll just drive you in your car, Matt. Come on.” 

Matt shoots Steve one last dirty look as you bustle over to him, crossing your arms as he levels Eddie with the same. “They’re just doing their jobs, Matt,” you say, tone bitten a little short as you lead him to the entrance of the restaurant.

“What’re we going back in there for?” he asks, and you blink at him.

“...We have to pay for our food and get our coats,” you say patiently, trying very hard to remain composed. Matt grumbles but pulls open the door for you, and as you pass through the threshold, you hear one last raspy, musical call follow you.

“See ya, Trouble!”

You hasten toward your table as Matt scowls, questioning you suspiciously. “Hey. Why does he keep calling you that? D’you know that guy?” 

You just sigh heavily, plastering on a smile as you flag down your waiter to explain the situation. And as you drive your date to the hospital, only one thought follows you. 

Leave it to a crisis to reveal peoples’ true natures.

Truthfully, the unfortunate shellfish incident was a blessing in disguise. After taking Matt to the hospital for further treatment and listening to him gripe on the ride home, you’d waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling he may have stirred within you without a shred of resistance. In recounting the tale to Josie, crowded together on the settee in her one-bedroom walkup with half-drunk Trulys in hand, you’d both reached a consensus on the following conclusion:

That bullet was well and truly dodged.

“Enough about fifth-floor fools,” Josie quips, scootching closer as you sip your bubbly and hissing with eagerness, “I can’t believe it was that same guy again! How many times have you run into him now?”

You hide your smile behind the can. “Three,” you say, keeping your voice carefully neutral. But you can’t fool Josie; she’s known you longer than anyone else, aside from your parents. She’s nearly your sister— you spend half your time sleeping at her apartment on the weekends since it’s closer to downtown, and many of the belongings littering the tiny square of her place are yours. Sometimes you feel silly for still living with your parents, but you remind yourself it’s a perfectly reasonable way to save money until you can afford your own place. And you’d move in with Josie, but her apartment is really only meant for one; you end up squeezed into her twin bed or cramped up on the settee whenever you spend a drunken night there, and that's not a permanent solution.

Josie swoons against you. “It’s so romantic,” she gushes, and you squirm at the unexpected sentimentality coming from your raincloud friend. “It’s like fate’s bringing you together.” When she eyes you suddenly, the glint of craziness has you shaking your head before she’s even gotten the words out. “You know, I’m feeling some mashed potatoes. Don’t you want mashed potatoes?” You don’t respond, and she barrels on. “Yeah, I really think you should go, like, chop some potatoes. And then, you know, just accidentally let the knife slip—”

“Josie!”

“What?! Like, don’t cut deep,” she defends, drawing her index in a slanted line across her palm before grinning suggestively. “Just deep enough to need stitches so you can ride him—” she feigns innocence— “sorry, Freudian slip— I meant riiiiiiiiide him in the back of his ambulance—” She bursts into laughter at the horror on your face when she salaciously repeats the same phrase, delighted to have tricked you into thinking it was a mistake the first time.

“Josie!” You snap again, face flooding with heat as she cackles, deriving great pleasure from your embarrassment. “I’m not going to cut my hand open just to hope Eddie shows up. That’s so stupid.”

“Aw,” she pretends to pout, “well, how else are you gonna see him again?”

You scoff, shaking your head, cheeks still tingling with your blush. “Who says I even wanna see him again?” you grumble, turning away from your best friend and chugging your Truly to ward off her response.

But you can’t deny that meeting Eddie three times did, in some way, feel… maybe not like fate, but like more than a coincidence. And in the days following your failed date with Matt, you find your thoughts drifting to that musical voice, those honey-brown eyes, the brush of your elbow against his hot skin, and the way his plush lips formed the letters of the nickname he’d given you:

‘Trouble.’

You’d eagerly waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling you’d had for Matt, but suddenly, there's a paramedic-shaped absence in your life that you feel every time you walk from the parking lot to your office building and glance across the street, eyes lingering on that bench beneath the cherry trees.

After a week, you acknowledge it, accept it, and allow yourself to secretly indulge in the crush you’d formed on the heavy-metal knockoff with the septum piercing and the most endearing laugh you’d ever heard. It lingers in the back of your mind, prompting you to slow the roll of your shopping cart in the bakery aisle of Trader Joe’s and pause beside the package of adorably-named Peanut Butter Brookies. As you pick it up, examining the half-peanut butter cookie half-brownies, you can't help but think of the protein bar with the same flavor.

It's silly. It's inane. It's entirely over the top, and you’d absolutely die of embarrassment if Josie found out. But before you can let yourself buckle with self-consciousness, you quickly add the package of baked goods to your cart and roll on. And on Monday morning, you slip it into your laptop bag. 

A thank-you gift for a lunch sacrificed, carried around just in case.

Monday bleeds into Friday, and still, the brownies remain ungifted, perfectly intact inside their hard plastic casing. You check the expiration date, which wasn’t for another two weeks, and they taunt you on your parents’ counter, mocking your whimsy. Still, when your dad comes sniffing curiously around, you feel a spike of instant dismay and snatch them before he can break the seal. He looks entirely baffled as you carry them protectively up to your room.

“Wha—” You ignore his confusion as you tramp up the steps, depositing the brookies back in your bag. You sigh, a sound of long-suffering exasperation with yourself and your own inanity. One more week, you resolve. If I don’t see him this week, I’m forgetting all about this.

And it appears, as Friday rolls around again, that you would need to abandon your silly crush on the paramedic you’d bumped into thrice in three months. Your laptop bag thumps against your thigh as you push open the heavy glass doors of your office building, emerging into the brisk chill of late September, tempered by the golden light of the deepening sun. You allow yourself to sulk, indulging in your disappointment until you reach the glittering blue paint of your Honda Civic. Fate is a fickle mistress. You sigh as you unlock the door and flump into the driver’s seat, depositing your laptop bag onto the floor on the other side of the console. You allow yourself an ironic smile, shaking your head at the notion of fate as you start the car and idle as you tap the phone icon on the screen, intending to call Josie to discuss your plans for the weekend.

Yet when you hit it, it doesn’t pull up your contacts as expected. Instead, it pulls up the list of Bluetooth devices it remembers, and you scrunch your nose at the words ‘y/n’s iPhone’ on the screen, wondering why it wouldn't just connect automatically. But when you tap it, waiting impatiently until the request times out, you realize what the problem is.

You must have left your phone in your cubicle.

Another sigh, this one longer and far more exasperated at the thought of trekking all the way back to the office after a long work day. You briefly consider just going home without your phone, but it’s Friday, and that would mean languishing without it for the entire weekend. A momentary inconvenience now is not worth the giant inconvenience that would be.

You groan as you pull your laptop bag back into your lap, petulantly pulling the strap over your head as you lock your car and begin the walk back to the office.

All looks the same as it had ten minutes before— the golden sun is still glinting off the windows you wish your cubicle faced, and the cherry trees are still swaying gently across the street. 

The only thing not the same is the ambulance sitting stationary against the curb across from those heavy glass doors.

Your footsteps falter in surprise for only a moment before incredulous giddiness has your heart racing. There’s no fucking way, you think, stamping down on your excitement as you maintain outward composure, walking calmly up to your office building despite the fluttering you feel inside. You even whisper temperance as you pull open the door, wincing as that typical blast of cold air hits you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you tell yourself as the clacking of your heels echoes hollowly in the lobby. “There’s no such thing as fate—”

The elevator dings cheerily, and the stretcher emerges first, revealing a pair of familiar leopard-printed flats and the rich darkness of your coworker Doris’ pudgy legs. You stop, eyes going wide as her torso, chest, neck, and head are slowly revealed. Her half-moon glasses are slightly askew, the crystal chain clinking against the heavy earrings dragging down her drooping earlobes as she’s maneuvered gently into the lobby.

Your mutterings about fate are abandoned immediately as you rush with concern. “Doris!” you exclaim in dismay. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?” 

She draws steadily closer as you stand in the middle of the lobby, her stretcher wheeled by medical personnel. You don’t look at them, eyes locked on your coworker as she grimaces at you. You know Doris is accident-prone, but this is beyond a little coffee pot mishap. Your chest tightens with nervousness at the pain on her face. She grunts, humphing, “Tripped and broke my damn ankle.” She shakes her head as if with disgust. “I told Doug I could’ve made it down myself, but he insisted on calling the ambulance.” She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is humiliating.”

Your brow crinkles with sympathy, voice going gentle with reassurance. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Doris,” you say, looking at her encouragingly as she slants a glance in your direction.

She enunciates each word very deliberately, snapping, “I broke my ankle tripping on a damn pencil, y/n.”

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, though the laugh builds up in your chest, wanting to burst out. In your defense, because of the potent combination of Doris’ accident-prone nature, her delivery of that line, and, truthfully, the fact that you can’t help but imagine what it looked like when she tripped over a pencil. Who trips over a pencil?!

It’s not funny. It’s NOT funny.

With the barest shred of merciful dignity, you manage to maintain your composure. “I’m sorry, Doris,” is all you can manage, and you rotate as she’s rolled even with you to keep facing her. The older woman humphs as she passes, and your eyes dart to the back of the large paramedic’s head, running over the bristles of his short hair as he diverts to the wall to hit the switch that automatically opens the door for wheelchairs.

You relax your mouth and let the smile grow as you turn away from Doris, but your heart leaps into your throat as you stop short just an inch from colliding with the second paramedic, who is standing far too close for comfort. Your heart leaps into your throat but drops into your ass as you register the honey-brown of his eyes, the wild curls that frame his pale face, and the scent of smoke and spice as Eddie towers over you.

You freeze, and your belly flutters wildly as his full lips split with a grin. “Hey there, Trouble,” he says, and for a moment, all you can do is blink at him mutely until your brain connects with your mouth.

“Eddie!” you exclaim, and in your surprise, you don’t temper your reaction to seeing him. You beam brightly, eyes wide with delight as he falls back on his heels, jamming his hands in his pockets. His expression melts into pleasure at the sound of his name so keen in your mouth.

“You know,” he teases, voice pitched a little lower than usual, “you didn’t have to plant that pencil if you wanted to see me again.”

But the implication of his teasing words and his tone skates right over your head because you’re already digging in your laptop bag, singularly focused on the unexpected rush of being able to deliver your gift. “I wanted to give you this—” you pull out the package with an air of triumph, “to thank you for, well… everything with Matt, I guess, but also for the protein bar. I figured you like peanut butter and chocolate.” 

You thrust the brookies toward him, and Eddie takes the package gingerly, staring down at it. You watch a couple of microexpressions dart across his face, too quick to decipher, and then he’s crooking a smile at you. “Thanks,” he says, “that’s really cool of you.” 

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth, and as Eddie stares at you for a moment, you suddenly become aware that he might think it’s weird you’ve been carting around a container of food, hoping to run into him. Before you can stumble too far down that rabbit hole, Eddie redirects you, asking casually, “So, how’s Shellfish doin’? Holding up okay now?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Your honest answer comes quick and unabashed. “There was no third date.”

There’s a flicker of something behind Eddie’s eyes, and then it’s gone. He leans in, cupping one hand to the side of his mouth as if speaking in confidence. “Y’ask me, I think you dodged a bullet. A man who doesn’t know his mollusks is not a good catch.” 

You chuckle at the play on words, and Eddie seems tickled that you’d caught on quickly. A dimple emerges on his cheek, and you feel that low fluttering again. “He was a little too macho for me anyway,” you say dismissively, shrugging and hoping he gets the message that you couldn’t care less about Matt. “He had a big ego, and I didn’t like the way he talked to Steve. It’s like he had to be the big man on campus.” 

Eddie snorts, a little sardonic as he replies, “Well, maybe he should date my ex. She loves that tough guy shi—” he glances at you quickly, seeming a little embarrassed of his almost slip-up. “—stuff. She called me a glorified nurse as if that’s an insult.” 

You come alive with warmth, choosing to take that to mean Eddie is single. And not only to mean that he’s single, but that he wants you to know he is, now that you said you’re single. That giddiness is returning, filling you up until you might burst; impulsively, riding that high, you say, “Can’t say I agree. Personally, I like a man who has a nurturing side.”

You don’t know where the hell that sudden boldness came from, and you rush with shyness almost immediately afterward as you see Eddie’s brows jerk. For the briefest moment, he looks taken aback, and then he’s beaming that eye-crinkling smile. It’s almost manic, brighter than any you’ve seen on him yet, and it’s utterly beautiful.  

“Munson!”

Eddie startles at the sharp, impatient shout from outside, and you realize that it must be his partner calling him. Eddie stutters into action, fumbling through an apology as he jerks toward the doors with your gift rattling in his hand. “No, it’s fine,” you assure him, and when he glances back at you one more time before tugging open the heavy glass, you bite your lip, fluttering when you see the pink on his cheeks.

You watch him through the glass as he jogs over to the ambulance, his long curls bouncing as he disappears from your view. Part of you— a big part of you— is resisting the sibilant whisper that it would be awkward to follow him, and you’re just about to do it when the elevator dings again. You turn toward it automatically, meeting the panicked eyes of your office’s youngest intern, Carrie. 

She seems surprised to see you, and her mousy nose quivers as her eyes widen. “You’re back?” she squeaks, rushing toward you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously, “I forgot my phone—”

She clutches your arms, quivering with desperation. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I was hoping to catch you in the parking lot—” You’re alarmed to see the sheen in her eyes, the wobble of her lip. “I really need your help.”

Immediately, your hand finds her shoulder, concern welling up to replace all else. “Look, Carrie, it’s okay,” you say, guiding her back to the elevator. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

By the time she’d wavered through her explanation, and you’d helped her fix the “crisis”— a simple jam in the new Xerox made unreasonably urgent by your boss’ exaggerated threat that if anyone broke the expensive copier, they’d be paying for it out of their earnings— you return to the lobby to find the street conspicuously lacking in one unmistakeable red and white vehicle.

The walk back to the parking lot— plus one phone and minus a package of baked goods— is dull and lackluster. Disappointment swoops in your gut as your foolish hope that maybe you’d catch the ambulance down the block is dashed when you reach your car with no such sightings. And you can’t even curse fate because you’ve gotten your wish. 

Fickle as ever, she’d delivered Eddie to you so you could return his kindness as you’d hoped. But she’d ignored the secret yearning of your heart, leaving you at the mercy of her whims.

And she wouldn’t oblige you again without a cost.

 It’s the burst of an impact you couldn’t possibly brace for. There’s the squeal of brakes and then the sickening crunch of metal. Powder in your mouth as you gasp. A rain of shattered glass. And then ringing, deafening silence.

In the stillness, the moments replay over and over, winding through your mind like a snake chasing its tail, each bone of its spine a single, disjointed thought. 

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

Your mother forgot the cranberries.

You were driving home from the store.

You stopped at the corner of Macopin and Hamberg Turnpike.

Two roads feed into one; the leftmost has the right of way.

There’s a cop car waiting at the left fork.

He waved you on.

You didn’t see the box truck coming around the corner.

He waved you on.

So you went.

The ringing, deafening silence dissolves slowly into sounds— the blare of a police siren, the hissing of a radiator. You turn your head slowly and glance at the passenger seat for your phone, and your stomach lurches at what’s past it: the crumpled remains of the passenger-side door where your vehicle is pinned against the guardrail, and beyond, the sea of trees it’s protecting you from.

There are tiny clatters of glass as you shift restlessly, heart pumping frantically as the shock begins to wear off and the adrenaline kicks in. Right outside your window, the hood of the box truck is bent and warped, and if you were to reach out your shattered window, you could run your palm along the warm metal. The reality then sets in: you’d been hit by a box truck and pinned against the guardrail.

You’re lucky to be alive.

A voice swims, echoing in your ears. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

You try to blink the daze away, to break free of the two thoughts the fractured bones of the snake have transformed into. Thank God I was driving dad’s Suburban. If I’d been in my car…. You desperately do not want to finish that sentence. 

You whimper with effort, and the voice returns more urgently. “Ma’am. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” you call weakly. 

The voice comes again. “Are you hurt?” 

“I—” You move slowly, shifting your body minutely. A bend of your elbow. A shrug of your shoulder. Something along your collarbone aches like a burn. “I don’t know,” you reply honestly, and your voice wavers with the realization. Slowly, other sensations emerge: you discern sharp soreness in your arm. You wince, and that tightening of your forehead stings. You can’t see your legs; they’re concealed beneath the airbag, and your heart pumps harder. 

Suddenly, you’re holding your breath. You’re afraid to shift your legs, afraid to feel a rush of pain, or worse, to try to move them and feel nothing at all. 

You turn your head fractionally, eyes straining to see out the shattered window, but the box truck is in the way. “EMS is on their way, ma’am. We’re gonna get you out of here.” You realize then that the voice must belong to the cop.

“Thank you.” You feel your eyes rush with tears. “Is… is the other guy…?”

“He’s okay,” the cop answers, and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief, letting it puff out your cheeks.

“Okay,” you answer in a small voice, and there is no reply.

As you wait for EMS to arrive, you concentrate on doing everything you can to reduce your panic, knowing that the worst thing you can do is allow yourself to freak out. You take slow, deep breaths, resisting the urge to suck in air greedily even as your lungs protest. By degrees, very gradually, the frantic pumping of your heart begins to slow, and the airbag at your steering wheel starts to deflate. And by the time it’s sagging flat against the wheel, you hear the crunch of nearby tires over grass and gravel and see a long flash of red beyond the vehicle wedged against your own. That must be the firetruck. As your body calms, experimentally, you begin to test out some movements, starting with the low-risk ones. Slowly, you bend your elbows until your hands are in front of your face and examine your fingers and arms. There’s a quickly-forming contusion swelling on your left forearm, and anxiety spikes once again until you run your fingers over it. It hurts, but not that badly, and you breathe a sigh of relief that it doesn’t seem to be broken. You feel along your face blindly, and there’s some stinging on your forehead and left cheek, but otherwise, there is no pain. Without moving your head, you unbuckle yourself and pull down the neckline of your sweater. As you feel around, you discover that the pain travels diagonally across your collarbone, and your fingers don’t come away with blood. Logically, the sting on your chest is likely just a burn from the seatbelt.

Higher-risk movements come next. You shift so, so slowly, resolving to stop as soon as you encounter any pain. But you turn your head, and there is none; you wiggle your toes, and they move. You sway your hips, and they obey, and when you lean forward toward the steering wheel, you meet no resistance.

Somehow, you think you’re okay. You don’t anticipate the rush of emotion the realization conjures, and a tear slips to cut through the airbag powder on your cheek.

You hear footsteps and voices approaching then, but still, all you can really see is the bent-up hood of the box truck. Slowly, the sounds discern themselves into words. And it’s a revelation that pulls another tear from your eyes when you realize one voice is familiar. 

He’s saying, “The cop said it’s a woman. She’s lucid—”

Your voice comes out small but sweet with melty hope. “Eddie?” 

The voice ceases immediately, and the silence is like a chasm. And then you hear your name rasped in that musical timbre. “...y/n?” 

You breathe a laugh, shaky with relief. “Yeah,” you croak. “It’s me.” Instantly, the lingering stormclouds— the apprehension, the shame, the acrid, biting fear— all disperse as you picture a bright smile and honey-brown eyes, leaving behind only the tracks of dew on your cheek and the singular belief that now, everything will be okay.

“Harrington,” Eddie barks, “tell those fuckers to hurry up and get this truck out of the goddamn way.”

Every ounce of tension you’d been relieved of is tightening that musical voice now as it goes impossibly harsh. “Hey!” The sudden bite of his shout is shocking. “Let’s go! What the fuck is taking so long?”

A sliver of Eddie peeks at the edge of the window, and his voice gentles again. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?” 

“No, I think I’m okay,” you say, shaking your head. 

Some grit, some tight urgency returns as he says, “No, don’t do that. Don’t move your head. Just stay still. Stay right there, okay? We’re gonna get you out.”

As bodies flit around in the background, you stare at the sliver of Eddie’s face— the paleness of his skin, the dark curtain of his hair, the glint of silver in his earlobe— waiting for the moment you can see his eyes again. You stare as uniformed men crowd around the truck, and you stare until it begins to roll away, pushed by their combined effort. And as soon as there’s enough room, Eddie is shuffling sideways until his face fills the window, honey-brown eyes wide and just as breathtaking as you remembered.

Before either of you can speak, Eddie is urged bodily out of the way to make room for the firefighters, who try to open the door only to find it stuck. One of them brings over a corded device held two-handed while the other passes you a scratchy orange blanket through the opening of your window. “We need to remove the door,” he tells you. “Hold this up to protect yourself.”

From behind the curtain of orange, you listen to them slowly and meticulously peel away the door of your father’s destroyed car. Eventually, after some long minutes, the shadow beyond the blanket falls away, and you hear the thump of heavy metal hitting the grass. And when hands pull the blanket away, the reveal of dark curls, lanky limbs, and a familiar handsome face fills you with a sense of awe that any magician would envy.

Ta-da.

“Hey, Trouble.” Eddie’s voice is gentle but hoarse, and he’s smiling, but it’s a little tight. You think his face looks pale as he looks up at you; you’re a few inches taller than him where he’s standing on the ground. His eyes rove over you restlessly. “How're you feelin’?” 

“I’m okay, I think,” you say again as Steve comes to stand beside Eddie, holding a neck brace. “I don’t think I need that,” you add. “I feel fine.” You turn your head to demonstrate, and Eddie instantly scowls.

“Look—”

Steve cuts in smoothly. “Does anything hurt? Anything feel numb?” 

You shake your head, stilling your movement when Eddie jerks forward, jaw clenched tight. “Just my arm hurts, but I don’t feel numb.” You show them the contusion on your left arm, which looks no worse than it did earlier. 

You can see that Eddie is still doubtful, but Steve walks you through basic checks. “Wiggle your toes for me.” “Try to move your foot up.” “Now the other one.” “Bend forward.” You follow his instructions easily, and in the end, he shifts back, conceding that you are, indeed, likely unharmed— at least in any crucial way. 

Eddie abruptly hoists himself onto the kickplate, planting his feet and filling the space where the door used to be. His closeness is sudden, and your eyes dart over everything— the metal of his belt buckle that’s now even with your bent elbow, the black on black on black of his paramedic uniform, the neck of his collared shirt that pulls further open to reveal more pale skin as he reaches for you. And then he’s everywhere, bending forward until his curls are brushing your cheek and his smoke and spice is in your nose and your stomach is fluttering so wildly you feel you might fly away.

“Hold onto me,” he mutters, and his voice is so close— low and musical and hoarsened by something that sticks in his throat— that your breath catches. His hand wedges between your legs and the seat, and gingerly, you wrap your arms around his neck and lift your knees so he can slide his arm underneath them. When his other arm comes across your back, muscles flexing to test your weight, you realize that he means to pick you up.

“I can just jump down, you know,” you say, and the wheezy chuckle he huffs into your hair is half-amused and half-incredulous.

“See,” Eddie says, and you feel him shift, testing his balance as his arms tighten around you, “this is why I call you Trouble.” The teasing warmth of his voice brings a flush to your cheeks, and instinctively, you duck your head against his shoulder. When you do, and your lips skim the column of Eddie’s throat, you feel the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. “Hold tight, okay?”

You tighten your arms obligingly and nod, and as the plump of your lips brushes the warmth of Eddie’s skin, he lifts you out of the broken skeleton of your crushed vehicle.

There is no time to worry about whether you’re too heavy or if Eddie will drop you because, before you know it, he’s laying you on the nearby stretcher. His hand finds your shoulder and presses you gently, though firmly, flat to the tilted back. Your eyes dart among the personnel that still litter the grass until they catch on the cars driving slowly past, and beyond them, the fated intersection— the nexus of this entire mess.

Suddenly, Steve is at your elbow. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” 

“Yes,” Eddie interrupts before you can reply, and your eyes dart between them as Steve shoots him a weird look. But Eddie doesn’t waver. “She’s going.” 

“Only if she wants to—” 

“She’s going whether she wants to or not,” Eddie interrupts him, nostrils flared and voice a little sharp. “She needs to be evaluated.” 

“I wanna go, Steve.” You head off the storm you can sense brewing between them. “I wanna go to the hospital. Can someone just get my phone and my bag?”

“We’ll make sure all your personal belongings are with you, ma’am.” It’s the cop from before, speaking from a short distance away. You nod, glancing at each of the men as Steve and Eddie continue to stare at one another for a tense moment before Steve mutely takes hold of the stretcher’s metal frame. Eddie does the same on your other side, and together, they load you into the ambulance.

It isn’t exactly a shock when Eddie hoists himself up beside you, shutting the back doors with a definitive thunk. His heavy boots clunk along the metal flooring as he flanks you, sitting down on a stool near your elbow, nearly hovering over you like a stone-faced sentinel. It’s odd to see him like this— tense and wound tight, his mouth pressed into a hard line as his eyes dart over your body restlessly, never settling in one place. He’s always been so calm and casual in every encounter you’ve had with him, and you’d figured that's just what he was always like. You think of how he’d felt carefully along Josie’s nose, occasionally glancing toward the stage as Spiritbox played one of their best songs. How he’d seemed friendly and warm though also detached.

You think, as his lips twist and he rips open the zipper of his med pack, that Eddie is not detached right now. And that thought makes you go warm with its implications.

As the ambulance rumbles to life, Eddie pulls out a small cylindrical object and sets it down on a tray. He pulls on rubber gloves, roughly tugging them down his hands before firmly taking your wrist, fingertips on your pulse point. You watch him wide-eyed as he stares at his watch to count the beats before letting you go. 

When his hands find your abdomen, you jolt in surprise, and he pauses for only a moment before pressing down on your belly. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, and the part of you that was flattered thinking about what the loss of his composure might mean flares in exasperation instead.

“I feel fine,” you tell him.

Eddie doesn’t look up or stop his palpations. “Could have internal bleeding,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.

“I am not bleeding internally, Eddie,” you say, trying to remain patient. 

“Who’s the medical professional here?” You think he’s trying to joke, but it falls flat between you since his voice is too tense to hold the same musical charm as his normal teasing. 

You sigh heavily, enduring until he’s satisfied. “There, see—?” A sudden light blinds your left eye, and you wince, unable to maintain your composure any longer. “Eddie, what the hell?!”

Undeterred, he checks the other eye in the same way, ignoring your squirming. “I’m checking your pupillary response,” he says. “You could have a concussion.” 

And with that, he starts talking. And once Eddie starts, he does not stop. 

Your arm is throbbing, the skin on your chest stings, and now your head is spinning with each word that comes out of his mouth. “Head trauma,” “loss of coordination,” “muscle laxity,” “cerebral hemorrhage,” “disorientation,” “amnesia,” “vision disturbance,” “hematoma.” Eddie’s rambling goes on until you finally snap his name. “Irritability,” he says, nodding to himself.

You huff. “No, Eddie, I’m not irritable. You’re just giving me a headache.”

That doesn’t make him stop; that makes it worse. In an instant, he’s standing, not realizing that you were exaggerating for effect. His face is hovering over you as he braces his hands on the metal bars caging you into the stretcher, eyes darting as he questions you intently. “Where is the pain? Is it sharp and shooting? Dull and aching? How bad is it, scale of one to ten?” 

You suppress a whine because despite your attempt to dissuade him, now he’s blathering on even more, and his gloved thumb is running over your forehead, and you can’t even enjoy it because his touch is stinging the tiny cuts on your skin. And all you want is for him to stop talking, and he won’t. Eddie just won’t shut up—

Impulsively, you fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt, surging up as you yank him down, swallowing his words as you kiss him firmly.

The words stop instantly, but Eddie also stiffens, going completely rigid as you kiss him. And the fact that you can taste him— smoke and spice like Big Red chewing gum— drives home exactly what you’ve done and how unbelievably inappropriate it is. 

You release him, flopping back onto the stretcher with your hands curled against your chest as the heat floods your face with such intensity that you fear your flesh might melt from your bones. Hot mortification rushes through you, nearly nauseating as Eddie stares at you, expression unreadable, eyes dark in the dim light of the ambulance and lips downturned just slightly at the corners. Embarrassed isn’t the word for it. The seconds that tick by are nearly unbearable, and if you could, you would sink into the floor, descend to the asphalt and below to the dirt, and then down, down, down through the surface of the earth to melt in its molten core just to escape this moment. 

Finally, once you’ve begun to break out into a cold sweat, Eddie says hoarsely, “You sure you aren’t concussed?” 

Your brow crumples with dismay, but then he’s cupping your face, his broad palm cradling your cheek, and his hand is warm beneath the latex. And you barely have time to appreciate how those honey-brown eyes soften before Eddie’s ducking to kiss you. 

It’s the second time you’ve felt his lips, and now, you don’t panic. You just bloom. 

Eddie’s lips are warm and soft and just slightly chapped, enough to make them rasp against yours pleasantly when he shifts his head slightly. You make a little noise against his mouth when he lingers, and your heart melts when you feel him smile. He parts from you just briefly to make it sweeter when he kisses you softly again, and then once more before finally pulling far enough away to gaze at you. He murmurs, and the teasing cadence is back in his musical voice. “Y’didn’t have to get yourself hit by a box truck to see me, you know.” 

You feel dazed in the best way. “Yeah?” you say, voice small and delicate and questioning. Eddie smiles, and you lean into his touch as he strokes your cheek with his thumb. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. 

Your eyes widen hopefully. “So does this mean you’re gonna take me to the drive-in?”

Eddie throws back his head and laughs— not a barking, surprised laugh, or a goofy, husky chuckle, but a rasp of pure relief and delight that has you blooming with pride. You don’t even mind that his hand falls from your cheek to clutch at the railing for support. When he straightens, his curls are wild and beautiful as they frame his face, his honey-brown eyes are twinkling, and that dimple you’re becoming partial to is out for you again.

“Slow your roll, Trouble,” he says fondly. “Let’s get you checked out first, and then we can talk about shakes and a movie.” 

The only drive-in movie theatre in the state is half an hour away, and the final showing before they close for the season is next Wednesday, and if that’s not fate, you don’t know what is.

It doesn’t matter that it’s rather a lot colder than it typically is at the very end of November. The inside of Eddie’s refurbished 1979 Chevelle is toasty, and you’re cuddled up under numerous knitted throws you’d gathered from your parents’ house, so the chill of the milkshake on your fingers doesn’t bother you. You set yours in the cupholder beside Eddie’s, strawberry next to chocolate. You nearly double-take when you pick his up and shake it, eyes darting to mischievous honey-brown when you realize it’s already more than half gone. You take a pouty sip, letting the taste of rich chocolate melt and mingle with fruity strawberry in a perfect melding of flavors. Eddie snatches your cup, pursing his lips around your straw and sucking cheekily. The chunky rings that glint on his fingers are unfamiliar but entirely welcome, and so are the battle vest, the green flannel, and the tight jeans ripped at the knees that replace his typical paramedic uniform. Finally being able to see Eddie in his street clothes still hasn’t worn off, and you tingle even as you pretend to glare at him.

“You better not drink all of mine just because you nearly finished yours before the movie’s even started,” you tell him, trying to maintain your glare even though it’s already melting at the charming grin Eddie hits you with.

“Oh, Trouble,” he sighs, eyebrows crinkling in pretend earnestness, and you fight stubbornly against your lips. “I would never drink all of your milkshake. Mr. J would never let me live it down if I did.”

You lose the battle then, plunking his cup back in the cupholder as you grumble through your smile. He replaces your cup smoothly, smacking his lips in an exaggeration of enjoyment, eyes glittering. “Man, your shake really is good, though. If I didn’t like you so much, I might be tempted to finish it.”

His grin turns wolfish as you blush and look away. You’ve only gone out twice, but it's clear by now that Eddie enjoys nothing more than seeing the effect he has on you— the way his words and touches can conjure goosebumps, shivers, and blushes from thin air. Sourly you sit there, wracking your brain for how to get him back.

It comes to you, and your lips curve with a smirk. Suddenly, you know just the thing. 

You begin to deepen your breaths, exaggerating the rise of your chest and frowning in confusion. “Eddie? I feel faint,” you say weakly, glancing at him to see the enjoyment fall from his face as he transitions instantly into medical mode.

“What’s wrong?” he says, his typical calm paramedic cadence edged with concern. Your lips twitch as you hear it, but you suppress the impulse, wanting to continue your game. “Sweetheart, is it your head? Do you feel dizzy? What does it feel like?”

“I think…” you pause dramatically, eyes darting to take in his reaction, “...you’ve taken my breath away.” 

Eddie’s concern flattens as he stares at you, entirely unimpressed. You just beam, pleased with yourself, and in the light of your smile, the mask of disapproval cracks; the dimple emerges as he loses the battle with his own grin. With faint amusement and plenty of fondness, Eddie says, “You really are trouble, aren’t you?” 

The giant screen blazes to life in front of you, casting Eddie’s wild curls in a faint glow. The planes of his face soften in the light as the film begins, but neither of you move to switch on the radio yet. You simply gaze at him for a moment— this heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing and a not-so-secret heart of gold. When your sentiment floods your eyes, you watch Eddie’s honey-brown melt in kind. You hum your agreement, leaning over the armrest, and when Eddie meets you halfway, you reward him with a tender kiss. “I really am,” you murmur against his lips, and they brush yours as he smiles. 

“Well, Trouble, it’s a good thing I know CPR,” he murmurs. And as the Wednesday double-feature begins, the movie’s soundtrack becomes the delight of your giggles, the warmth of Eddie’s chuckles, and the sweet press of your lips meeting again and again.

[greeneyedserb]

305/365 twinning! Someone who parks in my work parking deck has the same car as me and it was funny to see only our cars remaining on our row when I was leaving work . . . #honda #blue #bluehondas #hondahatchback #hatchback #civic #hondacivc #2019 https://www.instagram.com/p/B4VHXZ2pbpy/?igshid=ddzv7cakqos7

[soupbrothel]

I posted 4,662 times in 2021

43 posts created (1%)

4619 posts reblogged (99%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 107.4 posts.

I added 36 tags in 2021

#save - 5 posts

#yeah - 5 posts

#dead - 4 posts

#whore. - 4 posts

#hm - 4 posts

#reigen arataka - 4 posts

#me and who - 3 posts

#🥺🥺🥺 - 3 posts

#i’m obsessed - 2 posts

#sns - 2 posts

Longest Tag: 137 characters

#so i may have sent some anonymous asks to ppl pretending to be a ‘new shifter’ wanting to know if certain things would be considered okay

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Naruto Car Headcons

Sasuke: shitty 2003 silver Honda Civic thats super clean inside but is never more than a 1/4 tank full

Kakashi: 1984 Nissan 300ZX, it always inexplicably smells like cigarettes despite him never smoking. He doesn’t have car insurance

Sakura: I know with my whole heart she’s one of those girls whose parents got her a VW bug for her first car

Naruto: whatever it is he crashed it in the first week :/

Iruka: sea foam green 2013 Prius and he bought it used

Kiba: his moms gold 2007 Chrysler Town & Country that can fit the whole squad and was hotboxed once a week AT LEAST In the 7/11 parking lot

Hinata: doesn’t have a license bc her parents won’t let her drive

Shino: White 2020 Honda Civic Sport, not a single person besides him has been in that car bc he doesn’t want anyone fucking up the interior

Shikamaru: refuses to learn to drive or ask for a ride, choji just picks him up

Choji: Red Jeep Wrangler and he keeps it very clean

Ino: 2019 BMW 3 series in bright blue, she definitely stole it

Tenten: suzuki hayabusa motorcycle

Neji: Tesla Model S and he’s smug about it

Might Guy: 1988 Plymouth voyager in forest green with wood paneling

Rock Lee: inherits Guys car as a grad gift

Asuma: lifted Ford F350 XL and it hasn’t seen a speck of dirt

8 notes • Posted 2021-05-30 02:40:26 GMT

#4

Spotify block feature when

9 notes • Posted 2021-03-17 04:54:08 GMT

#3

literally the only kakashi headcanons that matter are the ones where he needs to ask for money from his 12 yr old students

11 notes • Posted 2021-06-16 20:24:58 GMT

#2

If I think too much about iruka adopting naruto I go insane

17 notes • Posted 2021-05-16 08:15:52 GMT

#1

heres my kankuro fan cast 🥰

24 notes • Posted 2021-02-09 07:22:51 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[dreamscapesmelbourne]

SHORT FILMS

All Inclusive

Directed by Corina Schwingruber Ilić | 10 minutes | All ages | Victorian Premiere

Consumer society is skewered in this amusing portrait of a luxury cruise ship, a world in which every paying customer’s wish can be fulfilled.

Country: Switzerland Year: 2018 Language: No dialogue Screens with: Window Boy Would Also Like to Have a Submarine

Anteu

Directed by João Vladimiro | 29 minutes | 15+ | Victorian Premiere

A series of strange incidents leave only one man left in a rural Portuguese town. He becomes obsessed with the problem of his own burial.

Country: Portugal Year: 2018 Language: Portuguese Screens with: Inside the Diamond

Blue Honda Civic

Directed by Jussi Eerola | 11 minutes | All ages | Victorian Premiere

A minimalistic road movie that mirrors the emotions of the driver through the landscapes they have chosen to look at.

Country: Finland Year: 2020 Language: No dialogue Screens with: Searchers

Erpe-Mere

Directed by Noemi Osselaer | 20 minutes | All ages | Victorian Premiere

Surrounded by the sound of nocturnal animals, a girl falls into a deep sleep. Gradually we are drawn into her dream, which unfolds into a cosmic journey through the meadows of a Belgian village.

Country: Belgium Year: 2019 Language: No dialogue Screens with: Pajeú

Go Seppuku Yourselves

Directed by Toshiaki Toyoda | 22 minutes | 15+ | Victorian Premiere

A man is tasked with assisting in the ritual suicide of a samurai who won't die without condemning the corrupt powers that be.

Country: Japan Year: 2021 Language: Japanese Screens with: The Day of Destruction

horizōn

Directed by Sid Iandovka and Anya Tsyrlina | 7 minutes | All ages | Victorian Premiere

Newsreel footage from 1970s Siberia forms the basis of this enchanting mixed-media work.

Country: Switzerland Year: 2019 Language: No dialogue Screens with: Ecstasy

In the Air Tonight

Directed by Andrew Norman Wilson | 17 minutes | All ages | Australian Theatrical Premiere

A mysterious stranger explains the inspiration behind Phil Collins' iconic 1980 single “In the Air Tonight”.

Country: USA Year: 2020 Language: English Screens with: Crestone

The Rabbit Hunters

Guy Maddin, Evan Johnson, and Galen Johnson | 7 minutes | All ages | Australian Premiere

Isabella Rossellini stars in this magical tribute to the films of Federico Fellini.

Country: Canada Year: 2020 Language: English Screens with: Slow Machine

Still Processing

Directed by Sophy Romvari | 17 minutes | All ages | Victorian Premiere

A box of stunning family photos awakens grief and lost memories as they are viewed for the first time on camera.

Country: Canada Year: 2020 Language: English Screens with: The Good Woman of Sichuan

Stump the Guesser

Guy Maddin, Evan Johnson, and Galen Johnson | 19 minutes | All ages | Australian Premiere

After a bad day at work, a fairground performer sets out to disprove the theory of heredity so that he can marry his sister.

Country: Canada Year: 2020 Language: English Screens with: Slow Machine

Sun Dog

Directed by Dorian Jespers | 20 minutes | 15+ | Victorian Premiere

A young locksmith in the obscurity of the Russian Arctic roams through the alleys of concrete, animated by a fantasy that isolates him from the city and its population.

Country: Belgium/Russia Year: 2020 Language: Russian Screens with: Accidental Luxurience of the Translucent Watery Rebus

Talking Dreams

Directed by Bruno Rocchi | 38 minutes | All ages | Victorian Premiere

This award-winning ethnographic film is set in a village in West Africa where the hosts of local radio interpret the dreams of their listeners.

Country: Italy Year: 2020 Language: French Screens with: Dreaming Under Capitalism

Twelve Tales Told (3D)

Directed by Johann Lurf | 4 minutes | All ages | Australian Premiere

A dozen logos for Hollywood production companies play before you as they would precede a normal Hollywood production, appropriately in 3D for digital projection.

Country: Austria Year: 2014 Language: No dialogue Screens with: Paprika

Wolf's Calling

Directed by Toshiaki Toyoda | 16 minutes | 15+ | Victorian Premiere

A girl finds an old handgun in her attic and the symbolic object conjures a mystical scene of samurai.

Country: Japan Year: 2019 Language: Japanese Screens with: The Day of Destruction

[vividracing]

New Post has been published on https://www.vividracing.com/blog/customer-spotlight-2019-honda-civic-type-r-on-titan-7-t-d6-wheels/

Customer Spotlight: 2019 Honda Civic Type R on Titan 7 T-D6 Wheels

The Honda Civic Type R has become increasingly popular among the automotive community and for good reason. This race-inspired hatchback was designed and engineered to deliver impressive performance, functional aerodynamics, and a sporty aesthetic that all ties together to offer a truly fun ride. While the Type R certainly exudes a powerful presence straight from the factory, the automotive aftermarket houses a wide range of parts to take it even further.

With that said, our customer Kevin Pakingan (@blade_liger_r) took advantage of the plentiful options out there and decided to treat his 2019 Honda Civic Type R to a new pair of shoes. He went with T-D6 Titan 7 forged wheels in a stunning Techna Bronze finish which complements the exterior Aegean Blue paint beautifully. Wrapped in Yokohama tires, this setup is a match made in heaven and the fitment is flawless. 

View All Titan 7 Forged Wheels Here

Titan 7 is a no-compromise company with over four decades of combined experience in the automotive industry offering high-quality forged wheels. The Titan 7 T-D6 wheels are the result of three years of extensive testing and design work. Although the 6-spoke design may appear to be simplistic, the T-D6 is packed with technical features that drive the brand’s “Forged for All” ideology to the next level.

A full-face design was chosen to give this wheel an excellent base for strength and rigidity. The popular “I–Beam” spoke construction goes well beyond the competition by connecting the machining work from the hub, spoke, and rim. This is a first for any wheel manufacturer, and Titan 7 decided to highlight this with its Launch Edition versions by offering it in a contrast machine color.

In keeping with the brand’s unwavering commitment to both light weight and high strength, a back rigid spoke tracer was employed for additional durability and stiffness. You can see a sliver of material that goes a long way for performance. Extensive machining was also employed on the backside of the spoke to remove material for final weight optimization. All of this was made possible by applying 10,000 tons of industry-leading forging force to deliver the wheel you see before your eyes below. 

Titan 7 T-D6 Wheel Features: 

Beefed-up inner rim flange for durability

Bead set knurling for traction

Contrast machined branding for authenticity

Each wheel is made to be vehicle-specific

Clears all popular big brake calipers

Tested according to U.S standards for safe road use

Available Finishes: Techna Bronze and Machine Black

Valve stems included. Center caps not included.

Backed by a Lifetime Structural Warranty

Learn More and Grab a Set of the Titan 7 T-D6 Forged Wheels Here. 

If you have any questions about Titan 7 wheels or fitment for your ride, please feel free to contact us. You can reach us by phone at 1-480-966-3040 or via email at sales@vividracing.com. 

[shallowseeker]

I think the blue 2019 Ford Fiesta in Unhuman Nature 14x07 is definitely Sam's (rental?) car. And unlike the impala or the trucks, it's got 27 city MPG and 35 highway MPG. Perfect for a lore/literature/information gathering trip.

I offer this non-descript comment in 4x21:

DEAN He's switching up. Any other cars stolen in Jamestown?

BOBBY Two. 1999 Honda Civic, blue. Nice and anonymous, like Sam likes.

DEAN What was the other one?

BOBBY White oh-five Escalade with custom rims. It's a neon sign.

DEAN You're right. He'd never take that. Which is exactly what he did.

Here's a Honda Civic, circa 1999:

[kidnafflea]

Words rewire your nervous system

I didn't even know this was a thing until I began public speaking, podcasting, tweeting etc. Psycho-Linguisitcs. When psychology meets language. Speaking your life into existence is a thing. It rewires the internal which influences the external 'Your saying that words can rewire my reality?' Yes. 'Any idea why?' Yes. Pay attention. This may be the most important thing you read in all of 2019... 👀👇 There's a few BIG moments that parents expect from a baby. Can you name 2 of them? 'Hm...' It's their first steps & their first word. Walking is primal. You're going to keep experimenting until you walk. But the word... Is that primal? In order for you to answer that question, you gotta know some basics of language. It wasn't an invention that was designed out of the blue moon. There wasn't some mad scientist in a lab alone who said: 'Aha! Here it is. I have designed language!' Rather, it was a tool set created by society. Scientists are able to trace back dinosaur bones. But they always have a hard time tracing back the origins of language. Hard to dissect skeleton remnants to see the words they used. But the main premise is that language was developed by society. Every word that you use was the byproduct of one or many other peoples perceptions. The first word that baby utters was probably a word that they heard from you. And the first time you heard that word was probably when you heard it from your guardian. Language is simply an ANALOGY of reality. Picture a car. You see that? 'Yea.' What do you see? 'A burgundy Honda Civic.' How though? I just said 'picture a car.' Just random symbols. Why is it generating an image in your brain? 'Uhh...' Because words were designed by the people before you to convey perception. Fool. Don't you see? Words are more than symbols alone. They dictate your perception. Your view of the world. When I began public speaking, I was telling stories about my life. Events where I had a conflict and the lesson learned. And I was forced to articulate those experiences via words. Via language. I didn't know it at the time, but I was changing my reality. Your nervous system is made up of your brain & spinal cord. Nerves as well. Words light up centers of your brain which produce images.  Just like the 'car' example from earlier. Each speech was serving as commands from the brain. Remember this. ☆ the brain is dumb. It’ll do whatever its told repetitively. ☆The mind is the smart one. Brain is tangible & mind is intangible. Psychology is the study of the mind. Linguistics is the study of language. "Psycho-Linguisitcs is the relationship between psychological processes & linguistic behavior." Intelligent people can read between the lines. When the see Psycho-Linguisitcs, they see the ability for the mind to USE words to change their biology. Change their nervous system. Change the pictures in their brain. Speaking your life into existence has always been a thing. The great ones have been saying it for centuries. Coincidence? I think not. They were using language to rewire their nervous system. Whether they were aware of it or not. Life experiences are neutral champ. YOU get to decide the narrative that you want to assign to it. And if you don't actively assign a narrative to your experiences, your dumb brain will do it for you. Your brain is designed to keep you safe Your brain is operating with the old school rules of your primal ancestors. The life of people whose life was always in danger due to sabertooth tigers, rival tribesman & other dangers Your brain at a default state is negatively biased. The 'negativity bias' is the brains propensity to filter negative events over positive events for survival reasons. So if you don't CONSCIOUSLY pick your narratives, then your brain will assign it for you. And it will not be favorable to your long term vision. Your brain doesn't give a fuck about your long term vision. Your brain doesn't give a fuck about your growth. Let me reiterate. Your brain only gives a fuck about your safety. Carrying primal belief systems in today's world will have you being a victim. No lie. Self defeating talk & making excuses. You don't know why. But your negative leaning brain sure does. Which is why you need to reprogram yourself. And the most efficient way you're going to do that is thru language. There is plenty of words that you can select from to creative dream narrative for your programmable brain. Change your internal world by being mindful of the words you're using. Better yet, set aside 10-30 minutes a day to program your brain To speak your desired reality into existence. Start of with journaling. Pen & paper. Writing by hand engages the motor sector of the brain, memory, logic, creativity etc. Writing by hand engages virtually all parts of your brain. Keep practicing that. And eventually you can expand to another vehicle if you desire like: Twitter Podcast YouTube Public speaking etc 

Make sense of your past experiences by: Acknowledging your wins. And viewing the lessons behind your losses And write about your desired future. Your vision comes out as a baby. Needs attention to grow. Work on the past & future for the optimal present. Words play a big role in your reality. It influences the images in your brain. Those images generate feelings in your body. A use of the strategic words puts you in a state of hypnosis to rewire your internal world. Be strategic with your moves. Beware of shit posting or whining like a negative sack of shit. You're only living one life. Life it by being bold. Don't live it by playing catchup due to short term thinking. If you write it down, you will soon become it. Just watch. Now it's just a matter of you finding out. Best wishes for 2020.

[dansoderbergauthor]

Honda Civic Type R Set to Debut in Chicago

The Chicago Auto Show starts next week. It’s the first big auto show of the season now that the Detroit Auto Show has moved to June. Chicago offers automakers their first chance to showcase what’s in store for 2020.

Honda is taking the opportunity in Chicago to unveil the new Civic Type R to a U.S. audience. The Type R was revealed in Tokyo a few weeks ago. The updated 2020 CTR takes the previous aesthetic to a whole new level.

The new CTR features updated brake rotors and brake pads. The interior features a new steering wheel and safety systems. The exterior of the CTR now features a boost blue paint job. The 2019 Civic Type R has a MSRP of $36,300. There are no pricing details available for the 2020 CTR.

If you’d like to know more about the 2020 Honda Civic Type R, or test drive the 2019 version, contact the knowledgeable sales pros at https://www.pearsonhonda.com/ in Midlothian, VA.

[calumbringbackthewatermelonshirt]

Live Furious, Die Fast [c.h]

a/n: i wrote this because of @c-dizzle-swizzlex and @twoamhood so it’s dedicated to them.  It’s pretty much modeled after the first movie with a bit of inspo from the others too, but like i said, i tweaked it to make it click better as i saw fit. There are also a lot of weird cuts in the movie and i couldn't include every scene so just bear with me. If you haven't seen the movie, the premise is that the boys are street racers who are running an illegal operation on the side. Enjoy! (this is still in the era of black haired cal) also, huge thanks to @calumh-excess who was crucial in the final stages of the writing process!

word count: around 8k

warnings: violence?

summary: If you haven't seen the movie, the premise is that the boys are street racers who are running an illegal operation on the side

Just for reference this is what car they all drive:

Luke: baby blue Porsche 911 GT2 RS

Ashton: cherry red 2019 ford mustang with a one cylinder nitro motor

Michael: purple honda civic with a V8 cylinder motor and green flames

Calum: jet black 1965 ford mustang GT with a two cylinder nitro system

______________________________________________________________________

Boys were dumbasses. Calum knew this mainly because he was one. Still, it didn’t change the fact that, at their core, all boys were dumbasses. This was all Cal could think as he watched one of his closest mates offer up his pink slip over a goddamn race. Dumbass. Maybe Ash was one of the best racers in L.A. but there was no reason to take that risk unless absolutely necessary. Still, it was fun to see Ash pretend that his car wasn’t as fast as it actually was. Michael had done a hell of a job with the designs for the restoration, so, aside from Cal’s own car, it was probably one of the fastest ones in L.A.. Cal was grinning, but he hand his hand over his face to keep up his stoic appearance. While Cal may not have been able to stop this madness, there was no way in Hell he’d approve of it. Still, the adrenaline from the race was a hell of a rush. Especially as Ash hit the nitro and visibly made the other racer eat his dust. He won by quite a bit, too. Cal already knew that he and the boys would have a hot meal after turning the car.  Usually they just sold the cars back to their original owners, which was convenient as fuck.

“Do you have to give them so much hope?” Cal reached into his pocket and drew out another cigarette and his lighter. He lit up and took a deep inhale. This “team” as they called themselves would be the death of him.

“Aw, c’mon mate. You know it’s more fun that way.” Ash giggled and checked out his new set of wheels.

“Alright, alright.” Cal took another drag of the cig. Being the leader of this rag tag group had its perks and its downfalls, one of them being trying to control all these asshats. “You’ve had your fun. Ditch the car and we’ll rollout.”

Ash chuckled again and waved Jake, the original owner of the car, over. It was a quick deal, ten gs for his car back. Jake knew how they rolled and was prepared to give the cash over without an issue. It was simple, just a standard Friday night. That is, until the cops showed.

“Everybody clear out!” Cal shouted over the madness at the first whisper of a siren. The more people that were in jail, the less money he made off them. So yeah, it was in his best interest to keep them out. Cal watched for a few seconds as everyone bolted to their cars and peeled off the street they had been using as a track. As soon as Cal saw Ash was in his car and heading, Cal hopped in his own ride and floored it. The cops were on his ass. Mainly because he had waited so long for everyone else to clear out. It took him a hot minute to lose the majority of them, so once he narrowed it down to only three sets of red and blue lights, he was ready to be done with them. He took two hard lefts, letting his car drift, but not too hard. He made sure to keep his car hugging the curb. One of the cops drifted too hard, practically wrapping his car around the telephone pole on the corner. Cal hoped the cop inside was okay, but it was still one less cop on his ass. Cal then drifted into another hard right and then another left as soon as he had cleared the curb, steering his car into an empty storage locker. He whipped the door open and slammed the locker door shut before the cops even rounded the first corner. He stopped for a minute and caught his breath before pulling his leather jacket back on and hoofing it back onto the street. He barely made it two hundred feet before a rather late cop came sloppily around the corner. Cal knew he was in for a shitstorm when the cop made quick work of a three point turn and headed back in Cal’s direction.

“Hey, Hood. Stop right where you are. Face to the Pavement.” The megaphone crackled over the cop’s loudspeakers. Cal just thought ‘fuck it’ and sprinted for the nearest alleyway. It was probably a lost cause, though. The alley wasn’t even a dead end, and Cal knew these idiots would chase him to the ends of the Earth. So when cherry red Nissan 370Z pulled up next to him, he didn’t hesitate to hop in. Maybe it was a little stupid and a lot reckless, but the only thing he could think of was staying out of jail. He didn’t bother to look at whoever had picked him up, instead training his concentration on the sirens getting louder and louder behind them.  Whoever was driving him was having none of it, taking a wide drift out of the alley. The cop behind them tried to follow suit, but was instead hit by an oncoming car.

As they sped off, two more cops approach from the opposite direction. They tried to form a roadblock with their cars, but Cal’s driver knew what they were doing. The two of them were pushed and pulled by the momentum of the car as it swerved to avoid the obstacles in the road. The cops took too long to right their vehicles, so by the time they did, Calum and his mystery driver were already long gone. The road they had taken spilled out onto the highway where Cal finally got a good look at his supposed savior. To his somewhat surprise, it was a girl, and not even the kind he was used to. Most of the chicks he hung with were either blondes or brunettes, with tube tops and tight leather skirts that barely covered anything. This girls, she didn’t appear to be that kind of person. She looked more… clean cut. A typical upper class girl if he had to guess. Long and perky honey blonde hair and yellow green eyes? Just screamed cheerleader, especially with the ski-jump nose, high cheekbones and cream-like complexion. She certainly didn’t look like a racer. But when she opened her mouth, boy did she talk like one.

“So what’re you doin’ on this half of town?” She kept her eyes trained on the road, only acknowledging through her words. Her voice, though, was so unforgettable to Cal.  Husky and low, the kind that you got from smoking a few cigarettes each day.

“Dunno. Guess I got lost.” Cal didn’t know this girl, didn’t know who the hell she associated with. While Cal may not have had outright enemies, he certainly had a list of people that didn’t like him, and vice versa. It was better to be wary than the say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

“Hmm. Well, buddy, you picked the wrong place to get lost. This place gets ravaged by Johnny Tran and his gang quite a bit. You’re not safe alone out here.” This time, she spared a couple glances in Cal’s direction. They drove on for a few minutes with only the sounds of the tires treading over the concrete. They were alone on the road for quite a few miles.

Before Cal knew what was happening, a set of eight motorcycles was flainking the car. His mystery driver noticed what Cal was gaping at through her rearview mirror, muttering a small ‘shit’ under her breath. She started to accelerate, but before she could enact whatever plan she was forming in her head, one of the cyclist pulled up next to her window.

“Follow us.” The cyclist was shouting to be heard over the wind, but Cal could very clearly see the muzzle pointing right at the blonde. When he turned, he saw a twin muzzle pointing at him, too. He saw the girl’s knuckles whiten on the wheel, her nails digging into the leather. Together, with the motorcycles, they flew down the highway, on the way to god-knows-where. The blonde-haired beauty sitting next to him furrowed her brow, but Cal could someow sense that this wasn’t the only thing that was eating away at her. He studied her face, trying to decide if it was worth trying to talk to her. Before he could make up his mind, she skidded to a stop in the courtyard of a rundown chinese restaurant. When she stepped out of the car, Cal couldn’t help but notice that she was packing. She placed her hand on the door and slammed it hard, the bang echoing through the courtyard. Cal followed suit, closing the door softer than his driver but still firm. He leaned his back on the car and lit up a smoke. He was tense, but he made sure to look at ease. There was no way in hell he was going to be intimidated by anyone. Their escort circled them, prevent any sort of escape or shit. Whatever. Cal was sure to appear unbothered by any of this shit, even when Johnny Tran and his cousin Chase came speeding around the corner.  

“Well, well, Hood. I think you’re a little lost.” Tran unhooked his leg for the seat and then proceeded to lean back against it, taking the girl who had ridden behind him under his arm.

“Hood wasn’t driving. Sorry though, I, uh, guess I lost my map.” Before Cal could open his mouth, his driver snapped back at Tran, her voice just dripping with sarcasm and venom. Cal felt his eyebrows tug up a little. This girl had some heat in her veins. He’d have to learn her name at some point.

“I don’t think I was speaking to you, Turell. And until I do, you had better keep you damn mouth shut.” Tran physically didn’t seem angry, but Cal could tell by Tran’s tone of voice that he was. What about this girl was making his blood boil the way it so clearly was? Every step Tran took was ripe with tension. At least now he was able to put a name to her face. Turell. He’d have Michael run a records check later. She might could be of use to him in the future. With the way she drove, there were quite a few possibilities.

“You need something Tran?” For the first time since their arrival, Cal opened his mouth. He blew the smoke out of his lungs and snubbed the cigarette out under his boot. Cal lazily brought his eyes up to meet Tran’s and cocked his head at an angle.

“Nice car you got here, Hood.” Tran strolled around the perimeter of the car, taking in every detail. “Whatta think, Chase?”

“Nice Car indeed.” Chase shrugged the machine gun he was holding up higher into his arms, making sure it was clear to the duo that he and Tran could and would use it. Tran seemed finished with the interaction. He slung his leg back over the bike and motioned for everyone to wheel out behind him. They sped off, and just as Cal and Turell were about to get back in, they heard the all too familiar high-pitched whine of motorcycles once again. Tran and Chase rounded the corner once more, but this time, instead of stopping to chat, they both brought out heavy weight machine guns. They covered Turell’s car in a smattering of bullets, shattering the glass, deflating the tires, damaging the motor. It happened in a matter of seconds, Tran and Chase gone as fast as they came. Turell just sighed and started examining the car before a look of pure fear crossed her face.

“NOS!” She screamed, immediately turning and sprinting away from the car. Cal mutter a fuck before following suit. At the last second, they dove for it, both of them hitting the dirt as  the car went up in flames behind them. Turell groaned and flipped over on her back, staring at the broken wreckage of her car.

“Thanks.” Cal stood up and offered her a hand, which she ignored.

“What for?” She sounded more tired than angry, which, for some odd reason, was a relief to Cal. He could put his finger on why, but he really just didn't want to be the cause of this girl’s anger.

“Everything, I guess.” Cal watched the girl brush herself off, not even bothering to go back to inspect the wreckage of her former car. He guessed there was nothing inside she need to keep. Or rather, nothing that could have survived. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me a ten second car.” She raised her eyebrows and pointed a finger at him. The way she said it was like it was a fact, not even up for debate.

Cal chuckled, brushing off her comment. They’d work something out later, but right now, they had to focus on getting back to town.

“So what did Tran want with you anyways, Hood?” She procured a cell phone from the pocket of her leather jacket and proceeded to hold it up, desperately trying to get a shred of a signal.

“I could ask you the same question, Turell.” Cal just shoved his fists as deep into the pockets of his jacket as they could go. It was a long story, and if presented with the option, Cal almost always chose to keep his mouth shut.

“AJ.” While AJ wasn’t ashamed to admit that the way Hood said her name was kinda sexy, she just wasn’t used to the idea of someone calling her ‘Turell’. She wasn’t a huge fan of her last name.

“Calum.” Cal offered his hand to her, a symbol of their acquaintance ship. They continued on in companionable silence for a while, only having miniscule conversations every once in awhile. After a solid five miles, they came across a point where AJ finally got service. She eagerly called a cab, saving them from the remaining fourteen miles on their feet. Cal just old the cabbie his address, not paying mind to the other occupant of the cab. He figured he’d pay for it, though. To somewhat make up for it.

Cal could hear the bass booming and shaking the walls of the house from two streets away. As soon a he got home, he was knocking heads together. Worthless dumbasses. He lumbered up to the porch before turning back and seeing AJ already halfway down the block, heading in what he assumed was the direction of her house. He thought for a moment before deciding that he did trust her, at least somewhat. Enough to invite her inside, he supposed.

“Turell! Want a beer?” Cal’s voice was rough against the mostly quiet street, but he could barely hear himself think over the bass of the house. He knew that, for whatever reason, he wanted her around.

AJ turned at the sound of his voice, a small smile playing on her lips. She didn’t say anything but she did turn and start walking back towards the house. Towards Cal’s house. Together they stepped inside, her smaller frame hidden by his large one. As soon as he came into their line of sight, both Ashton and Luke jumped up from where they were sitting.

“Cal, uh hey bud!” Ashton had a beer in his hand, slurring his words a little. “We were just about to go lookin’ for you!”

“Oh, shut up.” Cal sneered at the curly haired brunette standing before him with a beer in his hand. It was nice to know that while Cal had been chased by the cops, threatened by Tran, and on an involuntary ten mile hike, the boys had been nice and comfortable back at the house enjoying beers.

Cal walked back to the doorway where AJ was standing, but not before noticing Michael trying to get in a girl’s pants in the middle of the Living room.

“Oy. Turbo. Take it upstairs. You can’t paint a car without sanding it down first.” Cal shook his head as he picked his way through the drunk bodies. These boys would be the death of him. It was then he noticed Lindy. She was the final member of their little group, not counting Mali. Lindy had always been around as far as Cal could remember, but recently she had changed in ways that Cal wasn’t a fan of. To Cal, if you wanted others to respect you, you had to respect yourself first. Lindy had basically sold her body and while Cal believed that it wasn’t his place to tell her what to do with her body, he also wasn't going to take any part in that mess. Lindy, however, seemed to have her focus on something else. Or, rather, someone else.

“Why’d you bring that skank here?” Lindy was seething. She was leaning up against the door frame, arms crossed over her chest.

“Because the ‘skank’ kept me out of prison.” Cal could hear his voice rising as he spoke to her. He needed to walk away, fast, before he lost his temper. “That your beer?”

“Yeah, that’s my beer.” Lindy cocked her head at Cal, seemingly confused. Cal said nothing, instead just grabbing her beer and walking back to where AJ was standing.

“Here. You can have any beer you want, as long as it’s a Budweiser.” AJ smiled back and him and took the bottle from his hand. She then proceeded to make direct eye contact with Lindy as she wiped the mouth of the bottle for a solid minute with her shirt. Cal honestly thought it was pretty funny. Lindy looked like she was about to explode, but AJ was entirely unbohered, instead taking a long pull of the beer.

“Hey, do you have a bathroom I can use?” She turned to Cal with a slight smirk on her face. Her voice was soft, but Cal had no trouble hearing it over the bass. It had presence, an air of respect surrounding it.

“Upstairs. Second door on the left.” AJ turned and retreated up the staircase, Calum watching the whole time she was in view. Cal felt that there was a difference between her and the girls he was usually around, something about the way she carried herself. He found the respect she had for herself, the take no one’s shit attitude endearing. The way girls around here threw themselves at him, well, that just wasn't his vibe. But AJ, it seemed that all she wanted was her car back, nothing more. Cal respected her for that. So much so that he decided it would be a good idea to bring her to his sacred space the next day: his garage.

…

AJ had no idea what she was getting herself into. Hanging around with Calum Hood and his gang was no walk in the park. Especially with their rivalry with Tran’s gang. Tran had the numbers, but Calum Hood was a very cunning man. Still, it was inconvienet as fuck to keep getting kidnapped by Tran’s motorcycle gang, which was exactly what was happening right now. Although, now when the muzzle of the gun was shoved in her face, she sighed instead of getting all worked up. She found it worked better that way. They led her back to the same dumbass chinese place, and once again, AJ stepped out of the car that Hood had let her borrow and slammed the door.

“Were the guns really necessary this time?” AJ walked over to Tran who in turned opened his arms to her.

“Little sister. How nice to see you again.” Tran engulfed her in a hug, but AJ just sighed. She and Tran weren’t technically related, but they were pretty close. Tran had sort of taken her under his wing when she was younger, and they had remained close over the years.

“Hello, big brother. Please tell me your goons all had their weapons on safety.” AJ smirked at Tran, knowing full and well they didn’t. But she was still going to give him shit about it.

“Of course. Anything to report?” Tran really didn’t waste any time getting to the point. AJ didn’t either though, so she didn’t blame him for not making small talk.

“I think I’m in. Hood is practically wrapped around my finger. Although, was it really necessary to trash my car like that?” AJ was still sort of pissed about that. The Nissan that her brother had so ceremoniously trashed had been her first car, the one she and Johnny had practically built form the ground up.

“Hey. I promised I would make it up to you.” AJ knew that Johnny always kept his promises, but she was still a little pissed. Whatever he had for her had better be good.

“Remember. I need to know not only who, but how.” Johnny took her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes, gravely serious.

“I understand. If anyone knows, then it’ll be Hood. He has a hand in everything in the world.” AJ just rolled her eyes. How the hell was she supposed to be gathering intel if he checked up on her every second of every day. She just turned and walked back to her car. It was typical for him to worry about her, but it was still annoying as fuck. She just sped off, back to Hood’s garage. He said he had something to show her, and while AJ may not have known what the hell he was talking about, she had some hope that it was relevant to her conversation with he brother. Much to her disdain, Hood had other plans.

“Here you go.” Hood led her over to a beat up and burnt car. A true junker. AJ wasn’t even sure she could salvage it for parts.

“The fuck is this Hood?” AJ crossed her arms and smirked at Cal, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“This is the car.” Cal spread his arms and continued to smile. “You know, the one I owe you.”

“I asked for a ten second car, not a ten hour car.” AJ rolled her lips into her mouth, still not sure where Cal was going with this.

“Listen. You put about ten grand in and a few hours of work and this car will decimate.” Cal snapped his fingers and a pasty blonde man came over and put a set of plans into Cal’s open and awaiting palm.

“We’ll see.” AJ walked in a slow circle around the car, taking in every detail of it. The body may have been rough, but the car itself was the sickest thing she had ever seen. A 1969 chevy grand sport convertible. AJ’s dream car. Hood had no way of knowing that, but it was still a pretty fucking sweet moment for her.

“You can work on it here. If you can’t find the right tool in this garage, you don’t belong under the hood of a car.” Cal smiled at her one more time and then turned and walked back to his own car, eternally tinkering under the hood. AJ just smiled and lifted up the hood of the car. When she did, she let out a small whistle. Hood was right. This car would be killer, if they could fix it up that was.

“Hey. I’m Michael.” The same man who had given Cal the plans approached AJ and introduced himself.

“AJ.” AJ shook his hand, but her gazed remain on the car. She was trying to figure out all the schematics of the car, what color of paint, where the nitro can would go, how to reduce the maximum amount of weight while keeping the car functional.

“I have some plans drawn up if you wanna take a look.” Michael cleaned the grease off his hands with a rag and jerked his head in the direction he started walking. AJ followed him, but was still thinking about that damn car. It would be perfect when she was finished. Absolutely perfect.

“Here.” Michael led her over to a computer and typed in a line of code. Some blueprints popped up a few seconds later, for her car only better. There was an amped up version of her engine, a detailed list of every part they would need, even how many horsepower the car would have when they were done.

“Holy shit, man. You should have gone to MIT or some shit.” AJ was in awe. She had wanted to go to college, but life doesn't always work out the way you wanted. AJ both understood and respected that.

“Nah. I wanted to stay here, with my brothers. It’s the only life I’ve ever known, but it’s the only life I’d want to live.” Michael grinned softly at her, vulnerable but completely at ease. He used two fingers and pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. AJ smiled back at him, happy to be a part of their small but loyal group.

…

AJ wasn’t quite sure how she had ended up here. At a barbeque. With Calum Hood and his entire gang. But the food smelled delicious, so who was she to complain? They were waiting to eat til Lindy got here with the rolls and extra beer, but AJ didn’t mind, instead enjoying a casual conversation with Cal. Without realizing it, they slipped from casually talking, to kind of flirting in a way. Neither of them realized it, but Ashton and Luke watched them closely. They had never seen Cal this happy before, but it was a nice change of pace for him. It was peaceful for a few moments, Michael lost in a book, Ash and Luke appreciating Cal’s smile, and Cal and AJ lost in their own little world. It was nice, until they heard the roar of an engine approaching. Lindy.

“Lindy. Come help me with the rest of the chicken.” Cal welcomed Lindy, with a gracious smile and a nod of his head. Lindy, however, was in no mood for niceties.

“No, it looks like you have all the help you need there, Cal.” With that, Lindy threw the beer and rolls to Ash and Luke. She then climbed back into her car and sped off, back down the street.

“Her loss. The chicken is fucking amazing.” AJ snorted, brushing off Lindy’s downright rude behavior.

“You’ve eaten?” Cal looked back at AJ, an expression of disbelief on his face. He was dumbfounded at the fact that he had been standing there the entire time, laughing and talking to her, and yet AJ still managed to steal a piece of chicken and eat it. He was really more impressed than anything else.

“Uh, no?” AJ looked at him sheepishly, answering timidly. They all knew it was a lie, but it was worth a shot to try.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s all of us eat.” Cal stated loudly, putting extra stress on the word all. Everyone help to gather the food together and set it up nicely on the table. It was like a typical american barbeque with family and friends. Not once had she ever felt anything even remotely like this with Johnny and Chase. This closeness. This type of family. It was utterly new and fragile, and it made AJ’s heart break a little knowing it would all be over so soon. The rest of the lunch went by smoothly, just so utterly comfortable. It was an easy transition from the soft lunch, to all of them munching on popcorn and watching some awful movie on TV. They were all a tangle of limbs, spilling of the couch and onto the floor. AJ was sandwiched between Cal and Luke, Luke’s long legs slung over her own and trapping her in. Still, she wouldn't have wanted to get up anyways. Which is why she had such a difficult time getting up to leave.

“AJ. Hey. What do you say we take the grand sport out for a test drive tomorrow? You know, before the big desert races?” Cal was still seated on the couch, only now he had a fast asleep luke completely slumped onto his lap.

“Sure thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that, AJ slipped out the door heading back to her apartment.

Cal smiled to himself, knowing no one else had shared that moment with him and AJ. While he was more than excited for her to be able to race the car, he was still somewhat disappointed that he wouldn’t be working on the car with her everyday for hours on end. Still, he was confident that they had made enough of an imprint on her for her to still come around. Although, Cal felt that she deserved a medal for putting up with them. Between Lindy’s bullshit and the boys’ dumbassery, AJ was a whole different type of person. The type that Cal, for whatever, found himself falling in love with. He knew it was a cliche, but Cal was more than ready to be the first to say that AJ was different from other girls. Cal didn’t care about the cliche though. He believed that when you were in love with someone, that someone truly is different from all other people. That person is so different because they’re yours. And no one could truly replace them.  

…

Cal and AJ met the next day at the garage. Cal hadn’t let AJ see the final results, not the paint job nor the interior and chrome detailing. So the big reveal was a sight to behold.

“You ready?” Cal smirked, thumb hovering over the button on the garage door opener. It was exciting, both of them feeling the adrenaline flowing through their veins. AJ was practically bouncing up and down, and Cal was eating up the elated expression written all over her face. It was a new sensation for him, this feeling of pure love. Sure the boys were his life, but it was nice to have something for him for once. Just his.

“Born ready, Hood.” AJ was in trouble. Everything with this fucking mission had gone so wrong, so so fast. Mainly because she had fallen for Calum fucking Hood so hard so fast. She had, like an idiot, fallen in love with her brother’s worst rival. Damn.

So Calum clicked the button and watched as AJ lit up. She gasped loudly and ran over to the car, actually hugging it. Cal couldn’t blame her though, the car was a beauty. Jet black with a multi finish chrome. An all leather interior and completely black as well. The team had even installed blue led lights in the wheel houses.

“Let’s take her out for a spin, eh?” Cal was more than ready to get behind the wheel, really see how fast she could go. But before he could react, AJ snathed the keys out of his hand and jumped into the driver's seat, forgoing the door altogether. Cal rolled his lips into his mouth, but he was smiling so hard. AJ drove like someone was after her, taking every turn or corner as a drift, screeching to a stop at every light. They continued like that for a while, retreating further and further out of town. Eventually they pulled up at a spotlight right next to a Ferrari of some sorts.

“Nice car.” AJ called out to the man across the lanes of traffic. “What’s the retail on one of those?”

“More than you can afford, sweetheart.” Stuck up bigot.

“Smoke him.” Cal muttered under his breath to AJ, ready to make this idiot with a stick up his ass eat their dust. Which is exactly what happened. As soon as the light turned green, AJ floored it. There were a few cars in front of her, but AJ had no restraints keeping her from swerving into the oncoming traffic lanes. They smoke that asshole by miles, watching him fade to a mere speck in their rearview mirrors. It was something else, honestly. Eventually they pulled into a small but packed seafood restaurant. The two of them got a table on the back patio. They had an amazing view of the ocean and could feel the cool sea breeze hitting them every so often.

“This is dumb.” AJ just blurted it out, completely unprovoked. Cal looked up in surprise, a shrimp tail hanging out from between his lips.

“What?” Cal finished chewing and swallowing before asking his question. What did she mean, this is dumb? Being with him? Racing? He hoped not.

“Just, this!” AJ knew she wasn’t articulating what she really wanted to say, but it was hard to put her pent up feelings into words.

“Keep talking like that, and you’re gonna lose your meal ticket?” Cal knew he was just pretending to brush it off, but if AJ actually meant that she thought being with him was dumb, he was going to break.

“First, I don’t need you to pay for me. Second, I just need you to stop lying to me. I want in. On whatever you’re running, I want in.” AJ relaxed against the booth seat she was sitting in, almost breathless. It felt weird, knowing she was getting this info only to feed it back to her brother. Only to use it against him.

“I’ll tell you what. We’ll see how you do at the desert races this weekend, then we’ll talk.

Cal slipped her a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket, sliding it across the table to her. Her fingers brushed his as she picked it up and looked at the address, her touch sending tingles down his spine. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

…

Tomorrow came too soon. Today was the day when she would know. If it was Hood and his gang, then her source of happiness for the past few days would al disappear. She had a strong sense of loyalty, but and issue presented itself with that. Should she be loyal to Tran, her brother, or Cal, her love? It was a difficult decision, but she knew she would face a great loss either way. She had to focus up, get her head in the game. This was a problem for later. Right now, there was two grand on the line and her reputation. She didn’t come to lose. And the idiot she was up against? A fucking ameatuer. Used his Nos within the first twenty seconds. AJ knew she had it won. She even smiled sweetly and waved as the idiot she was racing at her dust.

It was as she was finishing up her race that Tran pulled her aside to talk, still on a high from the win.

“Any new intel?” Johnny kept his grip tight on her arm, too tight for her comfort.

“No. I find out today.” AJ forcibly pulled her arm out of his vice grip. When she saw the bruises already forming on her arm, it was then she knew. Tran had never actually seen her as a sister. Merely an opportunity. A broken little girl who could be manipulated for his needs. All the times he had sacrificed her for the profit, all the bruises and broken bones she had endured. Just a means of infiltrating other gang. She was sick of being lied to, sick of being used. So she made up her mind. Her loyalty lied with Cal. Cal alone. She turned and stalked away from Johnny with no other word, merely retreating to the trailer that Cal had brought out from the group. The sun had already set, signaling the end of the races,  so she was hoping to catch him. They had quite a bit to discuss. While she was sick of people lying to her, she was also sick of lying to the people she cared about. She stepped into the trailer, but before she could call out his name, she heard arguing outside the trailer. Loudly. She approached the window, staying behind the curtain, but still able to hear every word.

“You shouldn’t do this Cal. It’s not safe anymore.” Lindy was yelling at Cal, and she was starting to cause a scene. She was even tearing up a little.

“This is the last one. Chill out. We’ll be back soon.” Cal didn’t make any move to comfort her, instead just turning and walking away.

This was it. AJ could feel it, from the context to the raw tension in the air. However, contrary to what she had told Cal yesterday, she didn’t want in. She wanted them to stop. After growing closer to them, she feared for their safety more than anything. AJ had pulled off a few stunts like this with Johnny, so she knew first hand how dangerous they truly were. Now that the truckers knew they were coming, she was sure they would be arming themselves against the gang. She immediately ran out of the trailer and sprinted over to Lindy.

“Where are they going?” She grabbed Lindy by the shoulders and spun her around, looking directly into her eyes. It was clear from her conversation with Cal that Lindy was the only other person who understood the gravity of the situation.

“Get off of me, Turell. Or, should I say, Tran?” Lindy looked at AJ with fire in her eyes. AJ started chewing on her bottom lip. Shit. This isn’t what she needed right now, especially if she wanted to save the boys she had so come to love.

“Listen. It’s not what it seems. I get that you hate me, and that you don’t trust me, but right now, I’m your only shot at saving those boys. And if you love them as much as I do, then you’ll get in the car with me.” AJ removed her hands from Lindy’s shoulders, completely grave. There was too much at stake for games or jealousy. Lindy seemed to understand that, though, Together, she and AJ ran to the grand sport. They climbed in, and AJ had the pedal almost through the baseboard of the car before she was even full seated. Lindy gave her some quick directions to a shipment about forty minutes from their location, and all AJ could do was speed in that direction with her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She just hoped she got there in time.

…

This was the third truck that they had raided, and so far, Cal was hoping that it would go like the first two. But, as he learned the hard way, hopes didn’t get people very far in life. Everything had gone wrong as soon as Luke had made the jump from Cal’s car to the grill plate of the target truck. It was Ashton who had first noticed the gun, radioing it over to the others so they could abort. Sadly, it was too late to warn Luke so the blond had made the jump anyways. Cal watched as Luke realized what the driver was holding, watched as he panicked and tried to hide to avoid the spray of bullets from the buck shot. Cal muttered out a string of curse words, knowing he was powerless to stop this mess from happening. Luke was flopping around trying to find a foothold, spiraling around to the passengers side of the door.

That would have been fine if not for the fact that the wire he had used as a grounding system got tangled around his arm, bloodying it. Cal and Ash pulled onto either side of the truck and Michael took point, each of them shouting into the radio, desperately searching for a way to rescue their friend. It was then Cal noticed the jet black grand sport approaching behind them at a high rate of speed. He was so busy focusing on AJ and Lindy approaching in the rearview mirror that he failed to notice the 18-wheeler slamming into his side before it was too late. Cal felt the collision in his bones, rolling the car three times into the desert brush and ditch. His ears were ringing and everything was hurting, but he still remained focused on Luke. He heard a faint crackling diluted by the ringing in his ears, heard Ash’s voice broadcast over the radio that he was turning back for Cal. Cal wanted to respond, tell him to remain focused on Luke, but for some reason he couldn’t move his arms. He was tired, though. So tired. It was right as Ash was pulling him out of the wreckage that Cal let himself slip into the darkness.

…

This was bad. This was so, so bad. Lindy and AJ pulled up along the truck just in time to see one of the cars get smashed by it and go rolling into the ditch. The next thing they saw was Luke’s lifeless body swinging from the passenger’s side door. They both gasped and Lindy burst into tears, but AJ’s grip on the wheel just tightened. She was more determined than ever to save her friends. AJ pulled up as close as she could she could to Luke, which was sort of difficult considering the fact that the truck was swerving all over the road.

“Lindy, take the wheel!” That was all the warning that AJ gave Lindy before standing. Lindy, despite protesting, promptly slid over, taking the wheel and keeping pressure on the pedal.  

AJ watched for a second to ensure her timing was just right before making the jump. It sort of felt like she was moving in slow motion while she was in the air. So much could go wrong so fast, and yet she would do nothing different even if he had the chance. AJ slammed into the passenger side door, scrambling for a foothold. This was not how she was going to die. After she felt as stable as possible while hanging onto the door of an 18-wheeler going 70 down the highway, she got to work on helping Luke.

“Luke. Hey, bud listen you gotta focus up for a second.” AJ was worried. The wire had cut him pretty deep in some places, and everything was slick with copious amounts of blood. “Luke. Put your arm around me, okay?”

Luke did as he was told despite only being half conscious. Lindy seemed to understand what was going on because she pulled that car as close as she could get it. AJ knew a chance when she saw it, so she took it quickly and without hesitation. She pushed both Luke and herself off of the turck and into the car, trying to use what little momentum she had. They made it back safely into AJ’s car, and Lindy slammed on the brakes, peeling back to check on Cal. Michael had somehow seen the entire thing, so he too circled back. As soon as they got to the wreckage, AJ knew it was bad. She had managed to fasten a makeshift tourniquet for Luke, but she knew that if they didn’t get him medical attention soon, things would not end well for curly haired angel.

“Listen. Get Michael and Ashton and get Luke to a hospital. Now. I’ll get Cal.” Lindy still seemed wary of her, but AJ knew that Lindy trusted her. After seeing her jump to and from a moving vehicle for someone AJ had known mere weeks, Lindy had to trust her. AJ watched as the second girl sprinted off and got Ash and Michael. They were off in Michael’s car before AJ had even picked her way down to the wreckage. When she did, she breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he was bloodied and bruised, but Cal was alive. That was all she needed. Him being conscious was just a bonus.

“Hey, Hood.”  AJ was gravely worried, but she was also grinning from ear to ear. Cal was alive. He was okay.

“Hey yourself, Turell. You gonna get me out of here or what?” Cal grunted, obviously in pain, but there were underlying tones of softness in his voice. A certain softness that was reserved only for her. It took them a few minutes, but eventually AJ got Calum out of the trashed car and into her own. He was bleeding in various spots and his left arm was clutching his right shoulder, but he was okay. He had assured AJ of that numerous times. Instead of going to the hospital like AJ wanted and Cal absolutely did not, AJ drove them swiftly back the her apartment. Johnny didn’t know about and it had its own private garage, so they were safe there.  Cal was in a lot of pain even though he refused to admit it, so much so that AJ was pretty much carrying him upstairs to her apartment. As soon as she could, AJ lowered Calum onto the bed, as gently as she could of course, and ran to the bathroom to get the first aid kit she kept there. She went back to the bed only to find Cal in the exact same position that she had left him in. AJ started to take his jacket and shirt off, with minimal assistance from Calum himself.

“Slow down there girlie. At least let me take you on a date first.” Cal was starting to slur his words a little, but AJ knew it was because of the deliria from the pain.

She worked a little faster, climbing on the bed and straddling his hips so she could see what she was doing better. The work was meticulous, pulling tiny beads of glass from under his skin, stitching the larger gashes, and cleaning and bandaging all of them thoroughly. Cal just grunted here and there, not fully aware of what was happening. AJ thought it was probably better that way. She didn’t quite know what to do with his shoulder, though. From the way it was hanging, it was probably dislocated. Johnny had done that once and it had popped back in naturally over the span of about a week. AJ just decided to put it in a sling, ice it, and hope for the best. By the time she was finished, Cal had long since faded off and the clock was approaching 4am. Her concentration had kept her from being too tired, but now that it was broken her vision was starting to blur. She decided to take five on the bed to rest a little before packing it up and moving to the couch. Just five minutes.

…

taglist: @marshmallowtraver @daniellesimagines @lmao5sosimagines @shawnhockey5s0s

[greeneyedserb]

233/365 I love coming outside to this baby 😍 . . . #2019hondacivichatchback #2019 #honda #civic #car #bluecar #blue https://www.instagram.com/p/B1hyb4dJRNB/?igshid=fxsi8v2u3h4c

[soupbrothel]

Naruto Car Headcons

Sasuke: shitty 2003 silver Honda Civic thats super clean inside but is never more than a 1/4 tank full

Kakashi: 1984 Nissan 300ZX, it always inexplicably smells like cigarettes despite him never smoking. He doesn’t have car insurance

Sakura: I know with my whole heart she’s one of those girls whose parents got her a VW bug for her first car

Naruto: whatever it is he crashed it in the first week :/

Iruka: sea foam green 2013 Prius and he bought it used

Kiba: his moms gold 2007 Chrysler Town & Country that can fit the whole squad and was hotboxed once a week AT LEAST In the 7/11 parking lot

Hinata: doesn’t have a license bc her parents won’t let her drive

Shino: White 2020 Honda Civic Sport, not a single person besides him has been in that car bc he doesn’t want anyone fucking up the interior

Shikamaru: refuses to learn to drive or ask for a ride, choji just picks him up

Choji: Red Jeep Wrangler and he keeps it very clean

Ino: 2019 BMW 3 series in bright blue, she definitely stole it

Tenten: suzuki hayabusa motorcycle

Neji: Tesla Model S and he’s smug about it

Might Guy: 1988 Plymouth voyager in forest green with wood paneling

Rock Lee: inherits Guys car as a grad gift

Asuma: lifted Ford F350 XL and it hasn’t seen a speck of dirt

[jdmsportnation]

#tunerTUE (Swipe for more) The more mods you do to your car, the more accessories you look for! One of the upgrades are these @JDMSport intercooler piping kits! Tested and ready for the road (or track.) Made of high grade silicon and parts to perform when needed! Our hoses available in 3 colors to suit your needs! Comes in Red, Blue, and Black! And made to fit suit all cooling & boost needs! So many popular import applications for use. Available on Amazon, eBay, and authorized dealers! ————— JDMSportNation.com #jdmsportintercoolerkit #intercoolerkits —————- Constructed of high grade materials to assure continuous performance throughout ownership of your vehicle. Add this on that upgrade wanted list! Upgrade your engine bay and ADD MORE POWER ! As seen at 2019 SEMA featured in the JDM Sport booth! 😳🔰 ———- JDM Sport has the turbo chargers & accessories you need! #boostlife #fastandfurious MORE coverage at Firm400.com ! JDM Sport has ALL your performance parts needs from intakes, exhaust, steering wheels, intercoolers, lowering springs, camber kits, subframe bars, 32-Way JDM Sport Coilovers, and more as featured at #sema2018 ! 😎🔰 Photo: 👉 @firm400 👈 Follow: @jdmsportnation | @firm400 Get your JDM Sport performance products & accessories at YOUR local authorized dealer TODAY! If they don't HAVE IT - ask why and tell them to carry JDM Sport! Instagram : JDMSportNation Media: @jdmsport | Follow JDM Sport on social media: JDMSportNation.Tumblr.com Twitter: JDMSport YouTube: JDMSportNation AUTHORIZED ONLINE DEALER for JDM Sports Performance Products and Accessories: AJDMParts.com AdvancedJDMParts Online Shop online 24/7 for 1000's of top automotive brands and ALL your tuner performance products! All Media / Content used are Properties of Original Owners / Creators respectfully More media at Firm400.com | JDM Sport TV | AdvanSpec Network #jdm #japan #jdmsport #jdmsporttv #jdmsportnation #firm400 #advanspecnetwork #ITR #honda #civic #drift #import #boost https://www.instagram.com/p/B8K77Cxpnq5/?igshid=1d6e9msqcvkgn

[levaduraa]

2019 Honda Civic LX Sedan Changes Touring

New Post has been published on https://www.usahondacars.com/2019-honda-civic-lx-sedan-changes-touring/

2019 Honda Civic LX Sedan Changes Touring

2019 Honda Civic LX Sedan Changes Touring – Honda Civic lightweight car brilliance was having its blend connected with functionality in addition to any enjoyable to be able to push persona. The flexible Honda seems to have a model for everybody; its collection consists of a two entrance coupe mainly because nicely because of a number of-entrance sedan together with a hatchback. It is provided by two outstanding some tube along with both the adroit consistently adjustable automated transmission and also an essential smooth-changing half a dozen-pace manual.

2019 Honda Civic LX Sedan Changes Release Date

Feature

This particular year found the supplement for a half a dozen-rate manual so that you can Civic EX-T as well as the sedan. Additionally, it labeled the give back regarding these Civic. Contrary to this 2019 Honda Civic LX Sedan plus the particular coupe, typically the hatchback will be just available together with Honda 1.5-liter 4-tube. Also, usually the distinctive hatchback Sport when profoundly as Sports Touring delivered 180 HP to all of the dependable-6 additional than inside supplemental Civic types installed with this particular engine.

Exterior And Interior

The particular Civic exterior style can be a combine connected with vision-satisfying particulars and even brow elevating exuberance. You actually might or might not like the look attached with the actual Civic, although it is difficult to get something unpleasant about its design. Almost all involving the selected cars detailed here fall very quickly into very similar-sizing (and limited) vehicle parking locations, but also they can supply sufficient area inside of for several grownups. In spite of its more compact exterior proportions, the actual Civic butt legroom is definitely amid many connected with these almost all nice around the real class. All of the Civic possesses an interior that will be just like the particular 2017 model. While which indicates the item is nonetheless a significant and valuable atmosphere. It means they come back from very low-level chairs areas and several tacky cut items.

2019 Honda Civic LX Sedan Changes Release Date

Irrespective regarding the model, these Civic seat surface areas depart significantly to get wanted. The regular fabric toned draws in stray hair, for instance, a month so that you can flames, while the particular Touring, as well as Sports Touring unit leather material, will be from the reduced high quality. Sterling silver-decorated plastic-type material toned on your controls plus doorway deals with furthermore cheapen the Civic typically inside. These kinds of are not bargain breaker, though many people are information people will not discover inside the whole Mazda 3 class-top rated cabin.

2019 Honda Civic LX Engine

Typically the Civic gives two a number of-tube engines, one particular turbocharged and something not. Each is superb; the original turbo, especially, is swift along with fuel. Neither can you fail with sometimes of typically the two offered transmissions: an essential clever-changing 6-pace manual a new treadmill involving the very best CVT transmission inside the enterprise. Do not get individuals incorrect: we are delighted the original Civic features some manual. Even so, we’d choose if this had been on each model as an alternative of just for the reduce trims. That continues to be the very same for 2019, along with its engines in addition to transmissions hold around untouched.

2019 Honda Civic LX Sedan Touring Price

2019 Honda Civic LX Price And Release Date

The lowest priced new 2019 Honda Civic LX Sedan with a instructions transmission. Such as location request, (MSRP) of about $19,500. Civic coupes set you back a several hundred or so us dollars a great deal more, and the new hatchback Civic starts out with $21,000. Best-path Civic models can get through to the upper $20K range. Even though the Civic’s setting up rates aren’t the most reasonable (the Ford Focus, Kia Forte, Hyundai Elantra and Mazda3 commence a lot less), they are by the Toyota Corolla.