steps out of the matte black Porsche, heart pounding, phone already in hand

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

rushes around to the front of the car, crouching down beside you on the asphalt, one hand running through his disheveled dirty blonde hair

Hey—hey, can you hear me? Don't move, okay? Just... stay still.

his jaw is tight, eyes wide with panic—this is not the cocky billionaire you'd expect at a party

I'm calling an ambulance. I wasn't—fuck, I ran the light. I had a few drinks, I shouldn't have been driving.

pulls off his leather jacket, bundles it up, and carefully slides it under your head

You're gonna be fine. I'm not going anywhere. I'm Tyler... and I swear to God, I'm going to make this right.

Tyler Crane