Thane had long since lost track of how many times he'd driven out of his tiny hometown for a date.
Dating there was like speed-running your high school yearbook—every option a rerun, most already paired off, and more than a few still holding grudges like graduation was last week. He'd tried church socials, mutual friends, even one heroic blind date orchestrated by a painfully optimistic coworker. Everything short of skywriting. But in a town that small, everyone knew everyone—and most had already made up their minds. The dating pool was so shallow, he'd scraped the bottom. Twice.
His family tried to be encouraging, but they'd moved out years ago after his dad landed a job too good to turn down. Thane had bought their old house with his savings. Working online meant he could live anywhere—but habit had a tight grip. The town was stale, sure, but it was familiar. Comfortable. Like a favorite hoodie: frayed at the elbows, threadbare in places, but full of memory.
So he cast a wider net. Cleaned up. Updated his dating profile to reflect what he actually wanted: something real. He was done with women looking for a free meal—or a one-night stand. He wanted a partner. Someone who saw long-term as a feature, not a flaw.
So he started making the trip into the city for dates that mostly ended in awkward silence—or, much worse, like tonight.
She was halfway through her third mimosa and had already ordered enough caviar to impress no one but her own Instagram feed. When she leaned in and all but invited him back to her place, Thane politely said he was looking for something serious. That he wanted to take things slow.
She blinked once. Then let out a loud, incredulous laugh.
"Oh. Oh. You're one of those guys."
She pointed a spoon full of caviar at him like a knife. "Let me get this straight—you show up ten years older and twenty pounds softer than your photos, dressed like a divorced gym teacher, and you're the one saying no?"
Her voice pitched higher. Louder. People were starting to glance over.
"Honestly? I'd say you're not my type, but I don't think you're anyone's type. Guys like you don't get to play the deep-connection card. You don't have cards—you've got expired coupons and a Spotify playlist called 'midlife crisis.'"
She took a slow sip of her mimosa with theatrical calm. "But hey—maybe there's someone out there who wants a man with a retirement plan and a dog. A girl with just enough daddy issues to say yes when no one else will."
She leaned back, smug and smiling like she'd just scored a win on reality TV.
"So? You gonna be a gentleman and leave now? Or do you want me to shout 'cheapskate' when the bill comes too? Go on, lover boy—commit to something."
Thane felt his face go hot. It wasn't the insult—he'd survived worse. It was the absurdity of sitting across from a woman this shallow and still wanting to justify himself.
Retirement plan? Yeah, he had one. And a backup. And a five-thousand-square-foot house sitting on a quiet hilltop, mortgage-free. His investments earned more in a month than her entire outfit cost—assuming she didn't return it tomorrow with the tags still on.
But he didn't say any of that.
Instead, he took a sip of water and reminded himself: she wasn't worth the flex. Let her think she dodged a bullet. Also, what kind of soulless mimosa-guzzling gremlin sneers at dogs.
Honestly, adopting a puppy sounded way more rewarding than explaining emotional maturity to a half-drunk mean girl.
His younger brother, Jeff, would've told her off before the appetizers even landed. Probably in one sentence. But Thane wasn't built for drama—he was built for long-suffering silence and picking up the check.
He hadn't even finished his burger. Just nodded, pulled out his wallet, and left a stack of cash on the table while she watched him with that smug little smile—like she'd won something. Like paying the bill proved her right.
A small, petty part of him wanted to toss down just enough to cover his half and walk out. Let her explain the rest to the waiter. Especially after the way she'd leaned back and said, "So, you gonna be a gentleman and leave? Or are you a cheapskate too?"
But he didn't. He covered the whole thing. Tip included. Not because she deserved it.
Because that's who he was.
He walked out with his pride bruised and his appetite gone. He wasn't even angry. Just… tired.
Tired of trying. Tired of hoping. Tired of wondering if the problem wasn't them, but him.
As he drove past the little hobby shop down the street, Thane considered dropping in. He hadn't picked up any new miniatures in a while. Maybe he could grab a few card packs—something to take the edge off. Retail therapy with a side of nostalgia.
But no. The drive home was long enough as it was.
And even if he did pick something up, it's not like there was a hobby shop back in his hometown. No local tournaments. No game nights. No Jeff. With his brother gone and his parents moved out years ago, there wasn't exactly a thriving social scene waiting for him.
The cards would get opened and forgotten about. The miniatures would just collect dust next to the others. He didn't need more plastic soldiers watching him spiral.
What he needed… was something else.
His brain, uninvited, offered a solution: a puppy.
Warm. Loyal. Good listener. No judgment. Wouldn't care that he drove a land yacht or preferred slow-burn relationships over casual hookups. Wouldn't even mind the hoodie he'd been wearing for three years.
He could see it now—a fluffy little puppy sitting in the passenger seat, wagging its tail like Thane was the whole world.
...Yeah.
That actually sounded kind of perfect.
Still, he wasn't about to impulse-buy a living creature like it was a new set of dice. He'd sleep on it. If it still sounded like a good idea in the morning—maybe he'd start looking.
Maybe.
Thane sighed, shifting in his leather seat. Okay, sure—he'd gained twenty pounds. His profile pic was a few years old. But he wasn't some disaster. He liked his widow's peak, and the fresh haircut actually looked sharp this time. His teeth were straight as heck, and he whitened them like he was starring in a cartoon music video about dental hygiene. His green eyes had gotten compliments, and people always paused when he spoke, his deep bass voice doing half the work. He might not be a model, but he was solid. Real. Worth more than a drive-thru rejection.
Thane gripped the steering wheel a little tighter with his left hand as his old, but pristine, Caddy sedan hugged the curve of the narrow mountain road. The late afternoon sun cast long slants of gold across the poorly repaired asphalt. Broken up by the shadows cast from pine trees flickered like ghosts across his windshield. He could feel a migraine starting. He knew flickering lights didn't have it out for him, but it sure felt that way sometimes.
The road home seemed endless. He couldn't help but feel like the occasional person driving by was heading toward something better, something more certain. While he felt stuck in this same loop of endless miles and failed attempts.
Letting out an annoyed, and slightly pained, sigh, he flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror—empty—and then back to the winding road ahead, the edge of the cliff just feet from his passenger-side tires. A few hundred feet up, orange cones blocked a broken stretch of guardrail waiting like a bad punchline. For the umpteenth time, he wondered how long it took to fix something that important. He kept his eyes firmly on the road, refusing to spiral into mental crash simulations.
His attention drifted back to the one bright spot of the evening—the audiobook he'd been dying to start.
The fantasy epic played like velvet through the Caddy's old Bose speakers—seriously, how did a car this ancient have better sound than his expensive headphones? He was finally into book four, the long-awaited continuation of a series he'd practically memorized. Having listened to books one through three multiple times, he was pumped. He would've finished book four already, but real life had said, Surprise! You're working overtime to get a weekday off for a crappy date.
His attention started drifting into the checked-out zone that came with listening to a good audiobook. It didn't make him any worse of a driver—at least, that's what he kept telling himself. The real upside? He sometimes reached his destination without a single memory of the drive. Which, considering how long these drives felt, was a blessing.
He glanced down at the backlit digital readout of his speedometer, keeping a close eye on his speed—he wasn't one for breaking the law. Thane tapped the brakes to disengage cruise control, a yellow sign warning him to slow down to twenty-five for tight curves ahead. Even going uphill, he applied just enough pressure to the brakes to slow the momentum of his heavy old Caddy.
He didn't mess around with speed limits. Never had. Never got a ticket, never been pulled over, and—knock on wood—never been in an accident. He didn't even tint his windows, having heard it made cops more likely to pull you over. He kept it pristine inside and out.
The Caddy had been with him through a lot—long drives home from failed dates. The comfort of heated leather seats after hours in an office chair. He didn't care if his boat couldn't make U-turns. They took care of each other, and that was enough.
His attention started to phase out again when he saw it.
A jacked up truck coming around the opposite curve too fast. He wasn't a fan of lifted trucks, or generally the people who drove them. Thane could appreciate the rims though, maybe twenty eighths? He wasn't quite sure.
That appreciation evaporated when the truck started drifting towards the double yellow lines. For a second, Thane thought it would straighten out. That the driver would stay in his lane. But the truck's tires clipped the yellow line—then crossed it.
And kept coming.
Thane's pulse spiked, heart kicking into overdrive. His foot slammed the brake, his right hand crushed the horn. He veered as far right as the narrow lane allowed—any farther and he'd be grinding the guardrail. His tires shrieked, ABS stuttering beneath him. His eyes locked onto the truck—still coming, still crossing the line.
Then he saw the driver.
Head down. Thumbs dancing on a phone. Oblivious.
Are you kidding me? You can't hear a horn screaming at you?!
The driver glanced up. His head jerked. For a split second, their eyes met—panic written in every line of his face.
It was too late.
Thane felt the impact like a sledgehammer slamming into the side of the car—metal shrieked, glass cracked, and the wheel ripped sideways in his hands. Adrenaline detonated in his veins as the Caddy lurched right, tires screeching across the asphalt and biting into gravel.
The car slammed into the guardrail with a deafening crunch, grinding along it in a shower of sparks. He barely had time to process the cones blurring past before the rail ended—and the Caddy didn't.
He burst through the gap like a shot from a cannon, and then the road vanished beneath him.
Weightlessness.
That sickening, silent moment before gravity remembered it had a job to do.
Time fractured.
Gravity let go, and for a few impossible seconds, he was just... floating. Breath caught in his throat. Mind blank. Body suspended in a surreal, soundless drop.
Then everything snapped back into focus. The front end of the car pitched down, heavy and inevitable. His stomach turned to water, his thoughts spinning in every direction at once.
The world tilted. Trees became his new skyline. The ground rushed up to meet him—or maybe he was falling to meet it.
His ADHD brain, ever helpful, chose that exact moment to inform him he wet his pants.
He screwed his eyes shut and held his breath. His last thought, well this sucks.
Text scrolled across the darkness, green blocky text taking up his whole field of vision.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING PLEASE WAIT…]